hH«.r 


IN  COTTON  WOOL 


BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

NOVELS 

Spinster  of  This  Parish 

A  Little  More 

For  Better,  for  Worse 

Glamour 

The  Mirror  and  the  Lamp 

The  Devil's  Garden 

General  Mallock's  Shadow 

In  Cotton  Wool 

Mrs.  Thompson 

The  Rest  Cure 

Seymour  Charlton 

Hill  Rise  • 

The  Guarded  Flame 

Vivien 

The  Ragged  Messenger 

The  Countess  of  Maybury 

SHORT  STORIES 

Life  Can  Never  be  the  Same 
Odd  Lengths 
Fabulous  Fancies 


IN  COTTON  WOOL 


BY 


W.  B.  MAXWELL 

AUTHOR  OF  "MRS.  THOMPSON,"  "THE  REST  CURE," 
"THE  GUARDED  FLAME,"  ETC. 


.    NEW  YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 
1922 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


FOREWORD 

/  would  say  that  one  of  the  greatest  evils  of  our  modern 
civilization  is  the  steady  increase  of  egoism.  As  society 
is  now  constituted,  a  man  with  a  moderate  but  assured  in- 
come can  find  people  who  in  exchange  for  his  money  will 
perform  for  him  nearly  all  the  duties  of  manhood;  and, 
as  though  he  were  something  infinitely  delicate  and  inestim- 
ably precious,  he  may  thus  wrap  himself  in  cotton  wool  and 
evade  the  shocks  and  perils  of  active  existence.  And  the 
fact  that  within  the  packing  of  cotton  wool  all  the  best 
of  the  man  has  perished,  and  only  the  husk  of  a  man  remains, 
seems  of  no  consequence  to  any  of  the  parties  to  the  bar- 
gain. 


IN  COTTON  WOOL 


DO  you  ever  think  of  yourself,  Mr.  Lenny?" 
"Of  course  I  do." 
"I  don't  believe  it." 

Miss  Workman  smiled,  nodded  with  vehement  negation, 
waved  her  hand;  and  young  Mr.  Leonard  Calcraft  hurried 
along  the  sea-front,  to  overtake  his  father's  Bath-chair. 

"Well,  Lenny,  what  did  she  want?  Why  did  she 
stop  you?" 

At  the  sound  of  the  firm  footsteps,  at  the  sight  of  the 
strong  figure,  the  old  man's  dim  eyes  brightened. 

"Oh,  she  was  only  making  polite  inquiries  about  your 
health,  dad." 

"Thank  her  for  nothing,"  said  old  Mr.  Calcraft,  rather 
querulously.  "None  the  better  for  seeing  her.  .  .  . 
Tell  Miss  Workman,  with  my  compliments,  that  I'm  not 
going  to  lend  the  room  for  any  more  of  her  Tom-fool 
meetings." 

"Very  well,  father.  .  .  .  Certainly  not,  if  you  find  it 
upsetting." 

"Of  course  I  find  it  upsetting.  Surely  you  saw  that 
for  yourself,  last  time?" 

The  afternoon  sunshine  made  pebbles  flash  and  Sparkle 
on  the  beach;  gulls  dipped  and  hovered  above  white 
fringes  of  breaking  foam;  and  presently  the  breeze, 
sweeping   with    a   swift   unexpected    rustle   across   hitherto 

1 

52861 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

lazy  waves,  sent  wisps  of  sea-weed,  bubbles  of  spray,  and 
a  gyrating  cloud  of  sand  over  the  stone  wall  to  the  eighth 
hole  of  the  golf  links.  For  a  few  moments  all  light  and 
helpless  things  were  driven  before  the  cruel  wind. 

And  really  the  old  fellow  in  the  Bath-chair  looked  so 
weak  and  frail  that  one  might  almost  have  expected  to 
see  him  blown  away  too.  Instinctively  his  big  son  came 
to  the  weather  side  of  the  chair,  and  endeavoured  to  shelter 
and  protect  him  from  danger  or  annoyance. 

"Shall  we  turn  now,  father?" 

The  Bath-chair  man,  bending  his  back  and  slowly  plod- 
ding, had  taken  them  nearly  to  the  end  of  the  sea-wall. 

"No,"  said  old  Calcraft,  gasping,  "the  confounded  wind 
catches  one's  breath — but  I'm  all  right.  Go  on.  We'll  do 
our  full  journey." 

When  they  reached  the  last  bench  and  the  white  post, 
he  asked  for  his  walking-stick. 

Mr.  Lenny  fished  out  an  ebony  cane  from  the  side  of 
the  chair  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"There,"  and  the  invalid,  feebly  stretching  it  forward, 
gave  three  shaky  taps  on  the  white  post.  "There,  my  bear 
is  free;"  and  he  chuckled  and  coughed. 

"Yes,  dad,  your  bear  is  free." 

The  stalwart  son  had  watched  with  a  tender  solicitude 
while  this  little  ceremony  was  being  performed ;  and  he  put 
away  the  stick  carefully  and  gently,  as  if  it  had  been  a  part 
of  the  arm  that  held  it  outstretched  and  shaking.  All  this 
was  a  diurnal  rite.  Mr.  Calcraft  had  his  airing  in  the 
Bath-chair  every  afternoon,  and  he  was  apt  to  come  home 
depressed  and  fretful  if  bad  weather  curtailed  the  expedi- 
tion and  prevented  him  from  "freeing  the  bear." 

As  they  returned  by  the  long  sea-front  his  son  was  talk- 
ing gaily  and  cheerily,  and  he  listened  with  an  attentive 
but  perhaps  condescending  satisfaction.     He  loved  this  pleas- 

2 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

ant  babble;  it  was  music  in  his  ears,  and  yet  he  sometimes 
cut  it  short  with  an  ungracious  abruptness. 

"Rubbish,  Lenny.  .  .  .  Don't  believe  half  what  people 
tell  you.  .  .  .  And  don't  repeat  compliments  that  have 
been  paid  to  yourself." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  intend  to  blow  my  own  trumpet,  dad; 
but  I  thought  you'd  be  gratified.     .     .     ." 

"Well,  I'm  not  so  easily  gratified  as  you  are.  That's  all 
about  it.  Don't  let  people  flatter  you.  At  your  age  you 
ought  to  know  that  flattery  is  never  sincere." 

He  was  rude  to  his  son;  perhaps  merely  because  he  was 
rude  to  everybody,  and  gratitude  and  love  could  not  enable 
him  to  make  one  exception  to  his  rule.  Even  in  sickness 
and  weakness,  he  remained  what  he  had  been  in  health — 
a  hard  and  cranky  sort  of  man,  self-willed  and  obstinate, 
with  a  cynical  disregard  of  those  finer  susceptibilities  of 
thought  and  feeling  that  he  himself  did  not  possess. 

He  hated  his  infirmities,  rebelled  against  the  fate  which 
condemned  him  to  sick-rooms  and  Bath-chairs  instead  of 
allowing  him  to  enjoy  a  hale  and  hearty  old  age,  and  he 
made  of  his  tongue  a  sharp  and  redoubtable  weapon,  as 
if  trying  to  prove  that  he  was  not  yet  quite  impotent  and 
defenceless. 

And  the  struggle  to  avoid  that  outward  aspect  of 
decrepitude  which  invites  nothing  but  pity  showed  itself 
very  queerly  in  the  style  and  material  of  his  garments. 
He  had  a  passion  for  robustness  of  costume;  choosing  the 
heaviest  and  coarsest  things,  rough  pea-jackets,  huge  wool- 
len capes;  wrapping  undyed  mufflers  round  his  skinny  neck, 
and  hiding  his  white  hair  beneath  vast  dreadnought  caps. 
The  caps  were  terrific,  with  their  monstrous  flaps  and  peaks; 
and  in  truth  they  added  a  touch  of  grotesqueness  rather 
than  force  to  the  thin  bird-like  nose,  the  bushy  frowning 
eyebrows,  the  drawn  lips,  and  the  fleshless  pallid  cheeks. 

3 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Young  Mr.  Calcraft,  for  his  part,  was  always  so  beauti- 
fully and  appropriately  dressed  that,  walking  beside  the 
Bath-chair  throughout  the  changing  seasons  of  the  year, 
he  offered  a  pattern  and  example  for  all  other  young  men. 
His  deportment  moreover  was  as  worthy  of  imitation  as 
his  admirable  clothes;  for,  however  slowly  he  paced,  ac- 
commodating his  stride  to  the  restricted  progress  of  the 
chair,  he  carried  himself  firmly  and  erectly.  Altogether, 
he  seemed  to  humble  observers  a  fine  broad-shouldered  gen- 
tleman, as  big  as  one  might  be  without  being  too  big;  sun- 
burned and  smooth  of  cheek;  with  a  natural  curl  in  his 
well-cut  brown  hair,  and  a  reddish  glossiness  about  the 
small  brushed-up  moustache  beneath  which  white  teeth 
gleamed  pleasantly  in  a  genial  smile. 

A  marked  difference  here  between  parent  and  child.  Too 
often  when  you  touched  your  hat  to  the  old  bloke,  he  gave 
you  a  frown  for  your  pains;  but  the  young  gentleman  never 
failed  to  exchange  smile  against  smile.  And  all  the  world 
smiled  at  Mr.  Leonard. 

Thus,  as  they  passed  homeward,  they  met  many  kind 
greetings — from  fishermen  mending  a  net,  from  fishermen 
tarring  a  boat;  from  pig-tailed  maidens  and  an  austere  gov- 
erness; from  golfers  who  brandished  irons,  from  cabmen 
who  saluted  with  whips.  You  can't  live  ten  years  in  a 
small  watering-place  without  being  known,  and  everybody 
knew  these  two. 

Except  that  they  were  moving  instead  of  stationary  ob- 
jects, they  were  as  much  a  part  of  Westchurch  as  the 
church,  the  club,  or  the  lifeboat  house. 

"He  hangs  on,  don't  he?"  said  the  net-menders,  nodding 
sagaciously  when  the  Bath-chair  had  passed.  "But  see 
how  he's  looked  after." 

There  was  everything  the  matter  with  old  Calcraft — 
weak   heart,    weak  lungs,   liver    trouble,    kidney   complica- 

4 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

tions.  As  Dr.  Searle  said  again  and  again,  he  was  only 
kept  alive  by  the  unremitting  care  that  surrounded  him. 

"In  other  words,"  said  Miss  Workman,  "you  mean  by 
Mr.  Lenny." 

"Well,  and  so  I  do,"  said  the  good  doctor  cordially. 
"/  never  saw  anything  like  it." 

"If  was  the  devotion — continued  during  so  many  years — 
of  the  faithful  son.  The  whole  town  understood  and  ad- 
mired it.  It  was  a  traditional  legend,  and  a  live  fact  of 
the  place,  something  very  beautiful  to  contemplate — like 
the  new  view  across  the  river,  or  the  evening  light  upon 
the  hill-side — something  of  which  the  community  felt  justly 
proud. 


II 


THEY  lived  at  Number  One,  The  Crescent — that  is 
to  say,  in  quite  the  best  row  of  houses  on  the  whole 
sea-front. 

Once  Mr.  Calcraft  had  been  rich;  now,  entirely  from 
his  own  fault,  he  was  much  poorer.  He  had  speculated 
rashly.  Miss  Workman — elderly  spinster  and  leader  of 
Westchurch  society — professed  intimate  knowledge  of  those 
far-off  days  of  extreme  prosperity,  and  gave  vivid  sketches 
of  the  Calcraft  family  seated  in  a  Midland  shire,  with 
mansion  and  park,  with  stables  full  of  horses,  larders  full 
of  game,  pockets  full  of  money.  Oh,  how  sad  it  is  when 
you  see  a  well-connected,  long-established  country  magnate 
jeopardize  ease  and  forfeit  grandeur  by  his  own  stupidity! 

"Perhaps  it  is  natural  that  common  people  should  be 
reckless  and  ignorant,  but  you  do  expect  our  landed  gentry 
to  hold  fast  to  what  has  come  to  them  through  inheritance — 
at  least  until  Radical  legislation  takes  it  away  from  them." 

Fortunately,  said  Miss  Workman,  there  were  the  tied-up 
funds  which  Mr.  Calcraft  could  not  touch — poor  Mrs. 
Calcraft's  marriage  settlement,  and  so  forth;  something 
considerable  saved  from  a  catastrophe  that  ought  never 
to  have  occurred;  but  altogether  it  was  a  miserable  busi- 
ness to  look  back  upon. 

Think  of  it.  One  night  at  dinner — lovely  flowers,  cut- 
glass,  gold  and  silver  plate  all  over  the  table — the  idiotic 
man  coolly  announced  that  he  had  made  a  mess  of  things, 
and    that   retrenchment   had    become   absolutely   necessary. 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

Not  a  note  of  warning  before  this  dire  announcement. 
Without  prelude  or  preparation,  the  unhappy  mother,  who 
till  then  had  been  a  great  lady;  the  two  daughters,  who 
might  have  aspired  to  alliances  with  English  dukes;  the  son 
who  was  riding  thoroughbred  hunters,  studying  politics, 
training  with  his  smart  militia  corps,  fitting  himself  for  a 
splendid  and  useful  career — the  whole  family  were  driven 
to  the  obscurity  of  a  small  sea-side  town,  and  converted  into 
comparative  nobodies. 

Young  Leonard  bravely  submitted  to  this  reverse  of  for- 
tune. His  career  gone  for  ever,  his  life  cut  in  two  as 
though  it  had  been  a  delicate  silk  thread  snapped  by  a 
clumsy  blundering  hand — and  yet  he  uttered  no  word  of 
reproach.  Miss  Workman  used  to  say,  and  all  agreed 
with  her,  that  it  was  a  notable  instance  of  courage  and 
magnanimity.  Poor  Mrs.  Calcraft  bore  up  under  the  blow; 
but  Leonard  scarcely  showed  that  he  had  been  hit. 

Miss  Workman  said  further  that,  in  spite  of  her  cheerful 
demeanour,  the  mother  died  of  a  broken  heart,  and  that  on 
her  death-bed  she  consigned  the  father  to  Lenny's  care, 
made  Lenny  give  a  solemn  vow  that  he  would  ever  remain 
faithful  to  his  charge. 

Miss  Workman  could  not  really  know  what  happened 
at  the  death-bed  scene;  but  Lenny's  conduct  during  nine 
long  years  might  be  adduced  as  evidence  confirming  the 
accuracy  of  her  conjectures. 

There  never  was  such  a  son. 

And  Mr.  Calcraft  had  not  been  lucky  in  all  his  children. 
The  two  daughters,  Sarah  and  Jane,  had  defied  him.  One 
after  the  other  they  had  married  against  his  wish.  It  was 
an  irreparable  breach;  they  could  never  be  forgiven;  Mr. 
Calcraft  could  not  permit  anyone  to  mention  their  names 
at  No.  i,  The  Crescent. 

How  much  money  did  the  old  man  still  possess?     But 

7 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

for  that  tale  of  bygone  grandeur,  a  past  that  by  its  glory 
so  eclipsed  the  present,  people  would  have  spoken  of  him 
as  very  well  off.  He  was  infinitely  better  off  than  Colonel 
Blacklock  and  other  old  soldiers  in  retreat;  he  undoubt- 
edly had  more  than  Mr.  Reed  or  Mr.  Price- Young.  Fif- 
teen hundred  a  year?  Two  thousand?  It  was  a  question 
often  debated  by  the  ladies  at  their  tea-parties  and  the 
gentlemen  at  their  golf. 

No.  I  was  the  large  corner  house  next  to  the  garden  of 
the  Esplanade  Hotel;  unlike  the  other  and  narrower  houses 
it  had  rooms  on  each  side  of  the  hall;  and,  whether  con- 
sidered from  without  or  within,  it  impressed  one  with  a 
sense  of  substantial  comfort.  Indeed,  as  judged  by  local 
standards  of  wealth  and  poverty,  there  appeared  to  be 
every  sign  of  relative  affluence.  Good  furniture,  fine  big 
pieces  saved  from  the  financial  wreck,  and  books,  china,  pic- 
tures that  had  once  adorned  the  more  stately  home;  good 
food,  good  wine;  five  women-servants  kept  to  wait  upon 
two  masters,  not  counting  the  hospital  nurse  who  was  now 
a  fixture  in  the  establishment — and  such  thick  carpets  on 
the  stairs,  such  deep  and  reposeful  armchairs  in  dining- 
room  and  library! 

Mr.  Leonard's  bedroom  and  dressing-room  on  the  second 
floor  were  spacious  and  airy,  full  of  useful  things  and 
pretty  things ;  with  windows  from  which  you  looked  straight 
out  at  the  yellow  sands  and  blue  sea,  or  sideways  at  the 
dark  green  foliage  of  the  ilex  trees  in  the  hotel  garden. 
On  this  floor  there  were  unoccupied  apartments,  and  one 
of  these  had  recently  been  fitted  up  as  a  bathroom  after  the 
most  modern  style:  so  that  the  son  of  the  house  enjoyed 
close  at  hand,  without  risk  or  trouble,  every  amenity  of 
warm  douches,  cool  sprays,  and  tepid  plunges.  The  bath- 
room was  a  birthday  present  from  father  to  son — and  the 
old  chap  had  been  rather  nice  about  it,  trying  to  keep  his 

8 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

plans  a  secret,  and  sparing  no  expense  in  carrying  them  to 
a  successful  issue. 

Mr.  Calcraft's  bedroom  was  on  the  first  floor,  with  a 
little  room  behind  it  in  which  the  nurse  slept;  and  on  the 
other  side  of  the  landing  stood  the  rarely  opened  door  of 
the  big  drawing-room. 

Downstairs  were  the  dining-room  and  library,  and  a 
room  for  hats  and  coats,  or  for  Leonard  to  use  as  his  own 
den  if  he  cared  to  do  so.  But  in  fact  he  preferred  the 
library,  with  its  air  of  dignity  and  quiet,  its  fine  array  of 
well-bound  volumes,  its  marble  busts,  its  vast  writing-desks 
and  leather  fauteuils;  and  after  9.30  every  night,  when 
the  invalid  regularly  retired  to  bed,  he  might  consider  it 
as  his  domain  also.  It  was  here  that  Dr.  Searle,  Colonel 
Blacklock,  and  other  respectable  elders  would  smoke  a 
pipe  with  him  now  and  then;  and  it  was  here  that  he 
generally  received  the  admiring  youths  who  came  to  him 
for  counsel  and  aid  at  critical  moments  of  their  budding 
existence.  All  the  adolescent  males  of  Westchurch  ad- 
mired him  and  believed  in  him,  and  would  suffer  themselves 
to  be  guided  by  his  advice  when  they  were  openly  scorning 
the  wisdom  of  their  parents  and  guardians. 

"Look  here,  Jack,"  he  used  to  say,  with  his  pleasant 
smile,  "you  drop  in  any  night  after  a  quarter  to  ten,  and 
we'll  have  a  good  pow-wow." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Calcraft." 

"Nothing  to  thank  me  for.  .  .  .  And,  I  say,  don't 
call  me  Mister  Calcraft — you're  getting  too  old,  or  I  don't 
feel  old  enough  for  that.  Let  it  be  Calcraft — or  Lenny. 
Lenny  is  what  my  pals  call  me." 

"Oh,  may  I  ?"  And  a  blush  of  pleasure  no  doubt  suf- 
fused the  candid  young  face.    "May  I  really?" 

"Of  course  you  may.  .  .  All  right,  then.  To- 
morrow evening,  and  we'll  put  our  heads  together,  Jack. 

9 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Two  heads  are  better  than  one.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  an 
oracle,  but  I  do  know  something  of  the  world.  I  shall 
just  talk  to  you  as  man  to  man." 

"That's  what  I  want;"  and  again  the  lad  blushed.  "Man 
to  man!  That's  where  the  governor  and  the  mater  make 
their  mistake — wanting  to  treat  me  like  a  child  for  ever, 
.     .     .     A  thousand  thanks — er — Lenny!" 

Then  perhaps  some  time  next  day  before  the  appointed 
hour  had  come,  Lenny  was  buttonholed  at  the  club  or  on 
the  promenade  by  Jack's  father. 

"I  say,  Lenny,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  should  ever  have 
an  opportunity,  do  tell  that  boy  of  mine  not  to  be  such 
a  dashed  young  ass.  You  have  great  influence  with  him. 
Throw  your  weight  into  our  scale.  .  .  .  On  my  word, 
I  don't  know  what  these  youngsters  are  coming  to.  If  I 
hadn't  removed  him  from  his  school  two  years  before  I 
ought  to  have,  I  should  write  and  ask  his  head-master 
to  give  him  a  dashed  good  caning." 

Lenny  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"You  can't  put  back  the  clock,  sir.  It's  no  good  talking 
about  head-masters  and  canes  at  Jack's  age.  By  the  way, 
how  old  is  Jack?" 

"Eighteen.  A  stripling — a  mere  child — and  yet  he  has 
the  audacity  to  set  his  judgment  against  mine,  and  main- 
tains that  we  are  to  discuss  his  future  in  a  tone  of  perfect 
equality.  Speaks  of  his  rights/  If  you  could  make  him 
understand  that  it  will  be  time  enough  to  talk  of  the  privi- 
leges of  manhood  three  years  hence — well,  his  mother  and 
I  would  both  be  enormously  grateful  to  you." 

"Very  well,  sir,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

Although  the  task  of  pleasing  at  the  same  time  rebel- 
lious youth  and  domineering  age  might  seem  difficult,  Mr. 
Leonard  generally  accomplished   it.     Doubtless  great  tact 

10 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

was  needed,  but  everybody  owned  that  Lenny's  tact  was 
inexhaustible. 

And  he  never  showed  this  quality  more  conspicuously 
than  on  those  rare  occasions  when  the  drawing-room  was 
thrown  open  to  visitors.  In  this  room  the  decorations  be- 
longed to  a  bygone  fashion — tall  looking-glasses,  gilt  con- 
sole tables,  polished  steel  fireplaces:  nothing  in  it  had  been 
altered  since  Mrs.  Calcraft's  death,  and  no  one  had  used 
it  since  the  marriage  of  the  second  daughter.  But  it  was 
so  noble  a  saloon,  running  the  whole  depth  of  the  house 
from  front  windows  to  back  windows,  offering  such  pomp 
and  space,  that  its  fame  had  reached  to  the  farthest  con- 
fines  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  people  who  wished  to  hold 
meetings,  debates,  or  causeries,  often  begged  for  the  loan 
of  it. 

Mr.  Calcraft  lent  the  room  grudgingly,  and  never  pro- 
vided tea  for  the  company  assembled  under  his  roof  in 
the  cause  of  charity.  A  carafe  of  fresh  drinking-water  for 
the  principal  speaker — beyond  that  the  hospitality  of  the 
host  could  not  be  persuaded  to  run. 

But  Leonard  made  up  for  all  deficiencies,  and  by  his 
unfailing  amiability  and  limitless  tact  set  the  guests,  how- 
ever numerous  and  heterogeneous,  at  their  ease.  It  was 
he  who  smoothed  over  all  those  little  difficulties  which 
must  unavoidably  be  felt  when  the  representatives  of  half 
a  dozen  different  worlds  are  temporarily  drawn  together, 
but  remain  quite  unlinked  except  by  the  common  purpose 
of  the  hour.  Gentry  and  tradesfolk  cannot  be  expected 
really  to  amalgamate.  Yet  if  you  are  trying  to  raise  money, 
you  must  invite  those  who  can  afford  to  give  money — 
whether  they  belong  to  society  or  not.  It  is  very  embar- 
rassing, however,  to  find  yourself  placed  between  the  dis- 
senting minister  whose  daughters  were  black-balled  for  the 

2  n 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Badminton  club  last  year,  and  the  coal  merchant  to  whom 
you  wrote  the  sharp  but  perfectly  justified  note  three  days 
ago. 

But  Leonard  made  everything  all  right. 

"Mr.  Mayor,  I  want  you  to  sit  here — to  be  handy  when 
called  upon.  .  .  .  Mr.  Lockhart,  over  here,  please.  I 
know  you  like  to  be  out  of  the  draught.  .  .  .  Miss 
Workman!  May  I  ask  you  and  Mrs.  Scott  to  take  these 
chairs?" 

At  the  last  meeting — a  semi-religious  gathering  convoked 
by  Miss  Workman — none  but  gentry,  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land gentry,  were  present;  it  was  like  a  pleasant  family 
party,  with  no  clash  of  social  differences;  and  all  were  of 
one  mind  in  asking  Lenny  to  take  the  chair. 

"Very  well  then."  Lenny  deprecatingly  seated  himself 
at  the  small  table  with  the  water-bottle,  and  glanced  at 
the  audience.  "There  are  one  or  two  letters  which  Miss 
Workman  desires  me  to  read.  .  .  .  Or  perhaps  Miss 
Workman  will  be  good  enough  to  read  them  herself?" 

He  was  conscious  of  a  friendly  and  congenial  atmosphere. 
These  people  all  liked  and  respected  him.  Wherever  he 
turned,  eyes  rested  on  him  with  interest,  sympathy,  affec- 
tion. Close  to  him  in  the  front  row,  were  Mrs.  Reed,  a 
fussy  untiring  woman,  and  her  two  youngest  daughters — 
rosy-cheeked,  stubborn-haired  bouncers,  just  showing  their 
solid  ankles  beneath  their  tailor-made  skirts;  a  little  fur- 
ther from  him  Mrs.  Oliver  was  faintly  rustling  the  beads 
and  sequins  of  her  black  mantle;  the  delicate  anaemic  wife 
of  Colonel  Blacklock  had  brought  out  her  smelling-salts 
and  already  sought  invigoration  by  furtive  sniffs;  Miss 
Workman,  tall,  thin,  and  throbbing  with  nervous  energy, 
stood  a  yard  to  the  left  of  him  and  fumbled  the  sheaf  of 
letters  in  her  gloved  hands;  and  beyond  the  front  row, 
right  away  to  the  distant  windows,  sat  Mrs.  This  and  Mrs. 

12 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

That  with  or  without  their  feminine  offspring — in  fact 
nearly  all  the  softer,  sweeter  half  of  the  residential  gentle- 
folk of  Westchurch.  And  he  knew  them  all;  had  known 
them  for  such  a  comfortably  long  time  that  they  seemed 
to  give  off  the  restful  charm  one  experiences  when  sur- 
rounded by  familiar,  valued,  but  inanimate  objects. 

Only  three  men — deaf  Sir  Thomas  Garbett,  with  hand 
to  ear  even  in  this  silent  pause;  the  clergyman  who  was 
about  to  address  the  meeting ;  and  Mr.  Mack,  the  secretary 
of  the  local  branch  of  the  Church  Lads'  Brigade. 

"This  one  letter,"  said  Miss  Workman,  nervously  and 
huskily,  "I  should  like  to  read.  .  .  .  It  is  from  a  dear 
kind  helpful  friend." 

Lenny  bowed,  folded  his  hands,  and  turned  his  head 
towards  Miss  Workman. 

He  could  see  himself  in  the  looking-glass  above  the  near- 
est console  table — half-length,  very  clear  and  vivid, — and 
the  reflection  gave  him  fuller  confidence,  increased  com- 
fort. He  noticed  the  easy  attitude  of  the  mirrored  chair- 
man, and  felt  glad  that,  when  dressing  this  morning,  he 
had  chosen  the  serge  suit  and  the  black  tie  with  the  white 
spots.  His  blue  shirt  showed  very  nicely  under  the  tie, 
and  his  collar — one  of  the  new  shape — was  not  a  bit  too 
low.  It  seemed  just  right.  For  the  rest,  he  was  satisfied — 
really  a  fellow  of  pleasant  aspect,  not  handsome  but  more 
or  less  engaging,  sun-burnt  and  substantial,  blue-eyed  and 
frank,  with  well-trimmed  moustache  and  hair  parted  very 
high  on  the  right  side  of  the  head.  Until  the  time  came 
for  him  to  speak,  his  attention  was  intermittently  occupied 
by  what  the  looking-glass  displayed. 

Himself?  No,  that  was  not  truly  himself.  That  was 
what  he  seemed  to  others — the  brightly  colored,  three- 
dimensioned  picture  that  walks  with  us  through  the  world 
and  serves  as  symbol  for  the  vast  internal  mystery  that  out- 

13 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

siders  can  never  reach.  As  he  glanced  at  him  again,  the 
man  in  the  glass  had  the  air  of  an  affable  stranger. 

His  real  self  was  the  astounding,  complex  organization 
over  here — this  glow  or  throb  of  bodily  sensations,  this 
firm  and  unshakable  belief  in  an  individual  intimacy,  this 
warm  circle  of  incoming  impressions,  with  its  marvelous 
storehouse  of  memories  and  clearing-house  of  recognitions — 
this  widening,  contracting,  but  always  warm  circle  into 
which  there  were  flashing  even  now,  faint  and  strong,  re- 
corded and  unregistered,  myriads  and  myriads  of  mes- 
sages. 

He  could  no  more  admit  the  outward  shape  over  there 
to  be  all  that  there  was  of  Lenny  than  the  deep  and  tre- 
mendous Atlantic  Ocean  would  allow  that  it  was  nothing 
more  or  greater  than  the  surface  as  seen  by  passengers 
from  the  deck  of  a  steamer. 

"Now,  if  you  please," — Miss  Workman  was  handing 
him  the  remainder  of  the  letters. 

"Yes" — And  he  ran  through  the  apologies  and  excuses 
of  masculine  Westchurch.  "Colonel  Blacklock  regrets  that 
he  cannot  be  with  us.  .  .  .  Mr.  Newall  would  cer- 
tainly have  been  here,  had  not  business  intervened.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Underwood,  Mr.  Tasker,  and  Mr.  Malins  are  also 
unavoidably  prevented.  .  .  .  Yes."  He  looked  up, 
smiling,  and  hazarded  a  little  mild  facetiousness.  "I 
would  not  mention  the  word  Golf;  but  it  is,  I  believe,  a 
fact  that  this  is  competition  day." 

Many  of  the  ladies  laughed,  in  rapid  comprehension 
and  exquisite  enjoyment  of  the  joke. 

"Well  then,  ladies  and  gentlemen" — Lenny  had  risen 
— "It  now  devolves  upon  me  to  introduce  our  friend  the 
Reverend  Trevenna  Dale,  who  has  come  at  considerable 
personal  inconvenience  to  tell  us  about  his  Hoxton  mis- 
sion.    He  will  enlighten   us  as  to   its  aims,   and,   ah,   its 

U 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

scope.  And  if  I  speak  of  his  bringing  light  to  us,  I  do 
not  wish  to  imply  that  this  is  a  dark  place."     .     .     . 

"What  does  he  say?"  asked  deaf  Sir  Thomas.  "Who 
has  got  a  dark  face?" 

"Dark  place,"  whispered  the  lady  by  his  side,  "dark 
place." 

"No,"  continued  Lenny,  "we  are  not  altogether  in  a 
state  of  darkness,  but  we  welcome  further  illumination" — 
and  so  on.  Barely  three  minutes,  and  Lenny  had  sat  down 
again.  But  his  speech  enchanted  the  audience.  It  seemed 
to  them  so  neat  and  graceful — delivered,  too,  with  such  a 
charming  shy  geniality, — so  exactly  what  it  ought  to  have 
been,  that  at  its  conclusion  there  was  a  loud  clapping  of 
hands. 

Then  almost  immediately  a  parlourmaid  entered  the 
room,  bringing  an  oral  communication  for  the  chairman. 

Mr.  Calcraft's  compliments — and  could  they  conduct 
their  meeting  without  applause? 

Lenny  explained  simply  and  candidly.  "It  is  my  father. 
This  is  one  of  his  bad  days.  He  did  not  sleep  last  night, 
and  is  resting  now — and,  as  the  house  isn't  too  well  built, 
I  fear  that  any  unusual  noise  penetrates  to  him." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Workman,  "so  inconsiderate  of  us! 
I'm  sure  I  voice  the  general  feeling  when  I  say  that  we 
would  not  disturb  him  for  worlds." 

Then  the  meeting  went  on  in  a  quiet  and  sober  fashion. 
Mr.  Trevenna  Dale  was  listened  to  with  hushed  interest, 
and  he  fancied  with  some  enthusiasm  too ;  but,  as  the  actors 
say,  "he  did  not  get  a  hand." 

Nevertheless  old  Calcraft  was  grievously  upset.  At  din- 
ner he  quarrelled  with  his  chicken  broth,  and  banished  his 
milk  pudding  in  hopeless  disgrace. 

"Tell  that  woman  downstairs  that  I  begin  to  think  she 

15 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

wants  change  of  air.  .  .  J  Tell  her  to  go  to  South 
Africa  and  cook  for  our  poor  starved  Tommies,  or  the 
Boers — or  the  Hottentots.  She's  not  fit  to  cook  in  a  gen- 
tleman's household."  So  much  was  to  the  parlourmaid, 
flying  with  the  pudding.  Then  he  addressed  Lenny.  "She 
must  be  got  rid  of.  I  won't  stand  it.  Give  her  notice — 
from  me — to-morrow  morning." 

"Yes,  if  you  decide  so — and  no  doubt  there  are  as  good 
fish  in  the  sea.  .  .  .  But  I  must  confess  that  I  think 
Parsons — on  the  whole,  dad — does  us  fairly  well." 

"Rubbish,"  said  Mr.  Calcraft,  becoming  more  angry  than 
before. 

"She  gives  us  greater  variety  than  the  others  ever  man- 
aged." 

"I  don't  want  variety.  I'm  not  like  you — I  don't  happen 
to  have  the  digestion  of  an  ostrich,  and  I  won't  submit 
to  slow  poisoning  to  oblige  you  or  Parsons  or  anyone 
else." 

After  dinner,  while  Lenny  lingered  at  the  table  to  smoke 
a  cigarette  in  solitude,  an  urgent  summons  came  to  him 
from  the  library.  Mr.  Calcraft,  said  the  parlourmaid,  was 
refusing  to  take  his  drops. 

Lenny  found  the  hospital  nurse  standing  by  one  of  the 
big  armchairs  and  feebly  offering  the  rejected  wine-glass, 
while  the  invalid,  sunk  deep  in  the  chair,  his  snowy  head 
just  showing  over  the  leather  back,  shuffled  his  thin  legs  and 
spluttered  wrathfully,  exactly  after  the  manner  of  a  naughty 
child. 

"No,  I  won't,"  he  repeated.     "I  won't." 

"Oh,  you'd  better,"  said  the  nurse.     "Hadn't  he,  sir?" 

"Yes,  dad,  if  I  may  venture  to  advise " 

"You  can  keep  your  advice  to  polish  your  boots,"  said 
Mr.  Calcraft,  sinking  still  lower  in  the  chair. 

Lenny  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled;  then  he  indi- 

16 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

cated  to  the  nurse  by  signs  that  she  was  to  put  the  glass 
of  medicine  on  a  table  and  leave  the  room. 

'Til  read  The  Times  to  you  now,  father;"  and  he  un- 
folded the  day's  paper  and  soon  began  to  recite  the  latest 
news. 

The  voice  was  music;  really  the  words  did  not  greatly 
matter;  but  at  this  time  all  that  the  newspapers  could  tell 
one  was  of  absorbing  interest.  The  South  African  War 
had  just  opened  the  first  scenes  of  its  interminable  drama, 
and  already  one  began  to  guess  that  the  plot  contained 
tragic  as  well  as  comic  elements.  Gradually  old  Calcraft 
raised  himself  in  the  chair,  sat  erect,  and,  with  eyes  that 
faintly  glittered,  watched  the  reader's  calm  face. 

Presently,  during  a  pause,  he  pointed  to  the  adjacent 
wine-glass. 

"Give  that  to  me  now,  Lenny.  .  .  .  Yes,  I'll  drink 
it — for  your  sake."  .  .  .  Then  he  drank  his  medi- 
cine, and,  making  a  grimace,  handed  the  glass  back  to  his 
son. 

"Bravo,  father." 

"All  right.  .  .  .  You're  very  good  to  me,  Lenny.  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  you." 

"Shall  I  go  on  reading?" 

"No,  let  us  talk  a  bit.  I'm  tired.  I've  been  upset.  I'll 
go  to  bed  half  an  hour  earlier — if  that  nurse  has  finished 
her  supper." 

Old  Mr.  Calcraft  went  to  bed,  and  young  Mr.  Calcraft 
spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  at  the  little  local  club. 

It  was  quite  late  when  he  returned  to  the  Crescent,  and 
softly  and  cautiously  let  himself  into  the  hall  of  No.  I. 
The  deep  silence  of  night  filled  the  house;  through  the 
staircase  window  pale  moonbeams  streamed  down  from  a 
wind-swept  sky,   and   shed   a  pallid  ghostlike  radiance  on 

17 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

the  wall.  With  no  other  light  than  the  grey  moonbeams, 
Lenny  slowly  ascended,  stepping  noiselessly  over  the  thick 
carpet,  pausing  to  listen  on  the  landing  outside  his  father's 
door. 

He  undressed  quickly;  and  then,  before  turning  into  his 
snug  bed,  he  wrapped  himself  in  a  thick  quilted  dressing- 
gown,  came  out  from  his  room,  and  listened  again. 

All  silent — yet  slowly  and  cautiously  he  once  more  de- 
scended. Unrecognized  instincts  drew  him,  unanalysed 
thoughts  pushed  him  downwards. 

The  sound  of  rhythmic  breathing  at  one  of  the  lower 
doors  told  him  that  at  least  the  nurse  was  sleeping  com- 
fortably. But  was  father  all  right?  He  wished  to  know, 
he  must  know,  if  he  himself  was  to  sleep  without  worrying 
dreams  and  abrupt  awakenings. 

Very  cautiously  he  turned  the  door-handle  and  went  into 
the  invalid's  room.  Fire  in  the  grate,  the  night-light  burn- 
ing, and  the  warm  air  faintly  impregnated  with  the  odor 
of  a  liniment;  and  father,  as  it  seemed,  safely  wafted  away 
to  the  kind  land  of  nod — all  well!  As  Lenny  stood  look- 
ing at  the  back  of  the  fleshless  head,  the  wisp  of  white 
hair  that  obtruded  from  its  nest  of  pillow,  the  flannel 
jacket  that  guarded  a  bony  shoulder — as  he  looked  with 
yearning  pity  at  these  familiar  external  objects,  he  was 
governed  and  swayed  entirely  by  instinct. 

To  shelter  what  has  been  strong  and  is  now  weak — 
does  any  other  duty  make  so  poignantly  intense  an  appeal 
to  that  protective  instinct  which  is  implanted  in  every 
human  breast,  whether  male  or  female? 

"What  is  it?     Who  the  devil  is  it?" 

The  white  head  turned,  struggled  to  raise  itself  from 
the  pillows. 

"It's  only  I,  dad.  .  .  .  I'm  awfully  sorry  if  I  woke 
you." 

18 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"No,  Lenny."  And  the  invalid's  voice  changed  from  harsh 
alarm  to  weary  softness.    "I  wasn't  asleep." 

"Why  can't  you  sleep?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  very  tired.  ,  .  .  Perhaps  I'm 
too  old  to  sleep.  ...  I  doze,  and  then  I  wake.  .  .  . 
Old  people  never  sleep  long — till  they  sleep  for  ever." 

"Father,  don't — don't  speak  like  that." 

"Very  well.  .  .  .  Good-night,  Lenny.  Thank  you 
for  looking  in.    Good-night — my  dear  boy." 


Ill 


PERHAPS  if  Leonard  Calcraft  had  been  a  shabby, 
long-haired,  bilious-looking  young  man,  his  filial 
piety  would  have  made  less  stir  in  the  world.  At 
any  rate,  it  would  have  seemed  more  natural  to  chain  such 
an  ill-favoured  milksop  to  the  slowly  turning  wheels  of  a 
Bath-chair. 

But  Leonard  was  large  and  grand  to  the  view;  brilliant, 
many-sided,  able  to  shoot,  to  ride,  to  play  bridge  and 
snooker  pool;  in  the  phrase  of  Westchurch  ladies,  "quite 
a  man's  man." 

And  how  beautifully  he  dressed,  and  what  a  prodigious 
wardrobe  he  unfolded  to  the  admiring  gaze  of  the  lads 
who  vainly  strove  to  dress  after  him  and  up  to  him!  No 
matter  how  great  the  occasion,  he  rose  to  it — soared  at 
once  to  the  highest,  the  most  tremendous  necessities.  On 
wet  regatta  days,  when  the  drenched  sight-seers  cowered 
beneath  inadequate  umbrellas,  there  was  Lenny  clothed 
from  head  to  foot  in  yellow  oilskins;  at  the  hunt  ball,  when 
local  youths  all  felt  ashamed  of  their  dingy  unornamental 
black,  there  was  Lenny  in  red  swallow-tails,  brass  buttons, 
and  white  facings;  and  when  the  Mayor  gave  something 
like  a  state  dinner  to  the  officers  of  the  Fleet,  and  one  hated 
oneself  for  being  a  mere  civilian,  there  was  Lenny  in  full 
uniform — scarlet  and  gold,  sword  and  sash,  the  glorious 
garb  of  his  old  militia. 

Naturally,  if  the  young  gentlemen  were  affected  by  these 
splendid  splendours,  the  young  ladies  did  not  feel  untouched 

20 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

by  them.  All  the  nice  gfrls — and  there  were  so  many  fit 
Westchurch — had  a  try  for  Lenny,  made  their  poor  little 
effort,  and  owned  themselves  beat. 

Their  mammas  had  warned  them  not  to  look  in  that 
direction.  It  is  no  good  crying  for  the  moon.  Lenny 
would  never  marry  while  his  father  lived — and  you  know 
the  proverb  about  creaking  doors.  Lenny,  although  always 
spoken  of  as  young,  was  getting  on;  and  old  Calcraft,  un- 
like that  dear  witty  king,  made  no  apologies  for  being  such 
an  unconscionable  time  dying. 

Perhaps  nowadays  daughters  as  well  as  mothers  under- 
stood that  it  was  useless  to  entertain  tender  hopes  with  re- 
gard to  Mr.  Leonard;  if  they  fell  in  love  with  him  now, 
they  did  it  at  their  own  proper  peril;  for  they  had  all 
seen  the  lamentable  failure  of  Alma  Reed.  And  where 
Miss  Reed  had  failed,  how  could  the  rashest  or  most  con- 
ceited  anticipate  success? 

As  was  known  to  all,  her  acquaintance  with  Lenny  had 
opened  in  the  most  thrillingly  romantic  fashion.  She  was 
out  driving  with  her  rich  friend  Mrs.  Kendrew  of  Lywell 
Towers.  Mrs.  Kendrew,  in  common  with  most  of  the 
nicest  best-bred  people  of  the  neighbourhood,  had  a  great 
liking  for  Alma;  loved  to  get  Alma  as  a  staying  visitor 
at  the  Towers;  and  was  well-pleased  to  drive  her  phaeton 
and  ponies  into  Westchurch  and  drive  home  again  with 
Alma  by  her  side.  But  on  this  occasion,  while  making 
their  homeward  journey,  the  usually  well-behaved  ponies 
ran  away  with  the  phaeton. 

It  was  far  out  on  the  London  road,  no  living  soul  in 
sight  except  Mr.  Lenny,  who  looked  very  big  and  impor- 
tant as  the  ponies  came  thundering  straight  at  him. 

As  he  remembered,  he  did  it  nearly  all  without  thinking. 
Before  he  knew  that  he  was  doing  anything,  he  had  the 
nearside  pony  firmly  by   the   rein   and   less  firmly   by   the 

21 


IN   COTTON  WOOL 

bridle,  and  he  was  being  dragged  along  in  the  midst  of  a 
wild  clatter  and  hum.  Then  came  a  flash  of  thought.  They 
were  swinging  towards  the  ditch,  and  now  again  they 
swung  away  from  it — either  he  would  be  thrown  down,  or 
he  would  pull  ponies  and  trap  into  the  ditch,  bang  on  top 
of  him.  He  was  nearly  down — but  saved  himself  from 
the  fall — threw  back  his  weight — and  went  slithering  on, 
ploughing  up  the  gravel  surface  of  the  road,  with  a  sensa- 
tion of  pins  and  needles  like  giant  fireworks  in  the  soles  of 
his  feet.  And  then,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  the  ponies  had 
stopped  of  their  own  accord,  and  Mrs.  Kendrew  was  ex- 
citedly saying  that  he  had  saved  her  life. 

The  episode  made  much  talk — although  he  himself  would 
never  discuss  it.  But  he  could  not  avoid  the  fame  it  brought 
him ;  and,  naturally  enough,  the  ponies,  as  they  became  mat- 
ter for  legend  and  history,  were  always  growing  bigger. 
They  were  a  pair  of  cobs; — they  were  a  pair  of  carriage 
horses; — they  were  two  hunters,  full  of  beans — two  great 
tearing  devils  who  ought  never  to  have  been  put  in  harness, 
and  who  perhaps  had  never  felt  the  irksome  restraint  of 
collar  and  trace  until  that  day. 

Mrs.  Kendrew  did  not  cease  to  say  that  he  had  saved 
her  life;  and  incidentally,  of  course,  he  had  also  saved  the 
life  of  Alma.  Perhaps  one  might  expect  that  in  the  circum- 
stances the  younger  of  the  ladies  should  have  the  stronger 
feelings  in  relation  to  her  heroic  preserver. 

Anyhow,  girl,  friends  very  soon  began  to  report  that  Alma 
Reed  was  going  for  him  hammer  and  tongs.  Lenny  walked 
with  her,  danced  with  her,  skated  with  her;  dined  fre- 
quently at  her  father's  house,  and  would  go  to  any  tea- 
party  where  he  could  be  sure  of  finding  her  among  the 
guests. 

She  was  a  tall  girl,  slim  and  graceful,  with  grey  eyes, 
dark  hair,  and  the  white,  almost  opaque  skin  that  some- 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

times  goes  with  this  colouring;  but  what  made  people  of 
both  sexes,  especially  the  old  and  the  young,  say  that  Alma 
Reed  was  so  fascinating  and  attractive,  was  the  charm  of 
characteristic  individuality.  She  was  different  from  the 
local  girls.  She  dressed  differently,  had  a  certain  typical 
style  of  her  very  own ;  so  that  other  girls,  peering  and  chat- 
tering outside  millinery  windows,  would  point  and  say, 
"Look  at  the  one  with  the  velvet  bow  and  ostrich 
feather.  That's  an  Alma  Reed  hat,  isn't  it?  .  .  .  But 
it  wouldn't  suit  me.     I  couldn't  carry  it  off." 

And  all  her  circumstances  and  environment  aided  in  es- 
tablishing her  unique  position.  To  begin  with,  she  was  a 
Catholic,  and  to  the  minds  of  good  stout  Anglicans  there 
hung  about  her  the  glamour  and  mystery  of  Rome,  and 
something  vague  and  awe-inspiring  of  an  esoteric  faith  that 
you  don't  quite  understand.  Again  she  was  motherless, 
and  her  father  seemed  the  sketchy  unsubstantial  sort  of  per- 
son who  could  never  count  as  a  parent.  Her  stepmother 
and  stepsisters  belonged  to  the  Protestant  Church,  so  she 
was  therefore  separated  from  them  by  creed  as  well  as  by 
birth.  Thus,  when  you  saw  her  in  the  midst  of  the  noisy 
family  life  of  Haven  Lodge,  she  appeared  to  be  isolated 
and  alone;  and  not  very  happy,  one  might  surmise,  although 
hiding  any  private  sorrows  very  carefully  from  inquisitorial 
eyes. 

The  second  Mrs.  Reed  was  a  busy,  planning,  purposeful 
woman,  eagerly  intent  on  the  upbringing  of  Alma's  four 
j'oung  stepsisters;  providing  them  with  innumerable  tutors 
and  governesses,  instilling  such  useful  and  neglected  arts 
as  cookery,  carpentering,  clear-starching;  and  telling  all  the 
world — strangers  in  railway  trains,  anybody  who  would 
listen — the  full  scheme  of  her  maternal  endeavours.  "I  want 
to  fit  my  girls  to  be  good  wives  if  they  ever  get  husbands, 
and  yet  render  them  so  self-reliant  and  capable  that  they 

2$ 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

can  take  care  of  themselves  if  they  are  left  on  the  shelf. 
Don't  you  think  I'm  wise?" 

Of  course  if  the  listener  was  a  total  stranger  she  had 
merely  to  agree;  but  if  she  was  a  friend  she  would  feel 
bound  to  say,  "My  dear  Mrs.  Reed,  none  of  your  girls 
will  be  left  on  the  shelf.  They'll  be  snapped  up  quick 
enough  when  their  time  comes." 

"I  don't  know,"  Mrs.  Reed  would  reply.  "There  are 
more  women  than  men  in  the  world.  Look  at  Alma.  See 
the  fuss  that  people  make  about  her — and  yet  not  a  single 
offer.  That  would  be  a  lesson,  if  I  needed  one.  But  no, 
I  said  from  the  beginning,  'Here  is  your  problem.  Four 
girls  to  bring  up.  They  can't  all  go  off.  There  are  more 
women  than  men  in  the  world.  Train  them  so  that  they 
will  never  feel  disappointment.'  Don't  you  think  I'm 
wise?" 

Perhaps  one  could  truly  detect  a  sub-acid  flavour  in  Mrs. 
Reed's  reference  to  the  stepdaughter,  or  perhaps  the  slight 
unkindness  was  an  imagination  of  Westchurch.  "She  is 
not  appreciated  at  home" — that  was  what  everybody  said. 

To  masculine  guests,  dining  at  Haven  Lodge  for  the 
first  time,  Alma  came  with  a  perceptible  but  pleasant  shock 
of  surprise.  She  was  something  rather  better  than  you  had 
expected.  You  were  weighed  down  by  the  commonplace 
embellishments  of  the  drawing-room,  already  after  five  min- 
utes exhausted  by  the  exuberant  energy  of  the  hostess,  over- 
whelmed by  the  too  substantial  young  ladies,  and  perplexed 
by  the  too  shadowy  father;  the  arrival  of  Dr.  Searle  and 
Mr.  Lockhart  did  not  rouse  your  spirts;  the  presence  of 
Father  Marchant,  the  Catholic  priest,  gave  dignity  but  no 
relief;  and  then,  just  before  dinner  was  announced,  you 
became  aware  that  Alma  had  come  into  the  room.  She  was 
talking  to  Father  Marchant — she  had  made  him  a  pretty 
little  reverence,  and  he  was  beaming  at  her  with  paternally 

54 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

affectionate  pleasure.  She  was  shaking  hands  with  Dr. 
Searle,  with  Mr.  Lockhart,  and  the  faces  of  both  these 
gentlemen  lit  up.  Then  it  was  your  turn — a  murmur  of 
introduction  from  the  host,  "Oh,  ah,  yes,  you  haven't  met 
my  eldest  girl,  have  you?"  Or  a  few  short  sharp  sentences 
from  the  hostess,  "Late  as  usual,  Alma!  Do  you  know 
Mr.    Jones?    Very  well.     Mr.  Jones,  this  is  Alma." 

And  probably  Mr.  Jones  wished  that  he  might  sit  next 
her  at  dinner.  She  looked  at  him  so  kindly  and  so  frankly, 
saying  something  amiable  and  nice,  seeming  calm,  gracious, 
so  much  better  bred  and  more  refined  than  the  rest  of  the 
household — "a  creature  of  another  race,"  as  Miss  Work- 
man put  it.  "Altogether  too  good  for  the  lot  of  them, 
and  not  in  the  least  appreciated  by  a  single  one  of  them." 

But  enormously  appreciated  outside  the  home  circle. 
Miss  Workman's  tea-parties  at  her  rooms  in  Medina  Ter- 
race were  notable  events  of  the  winter  season;  the  most 
distinguished  residents  were  asked  twice  or  three  times  be- 
tween October  and  May;  matrons  of  secondary  importance 
were  glad  to  receive  one  card;  very  many  were  not  asked 
at  all,  and  it  was  alwa)rs  a  sore  point  with  them. 

"Oh,  yes,  they  told  me  at  the  confectioner's  that  Miss 
Workman  was  giving  a  party  this  afternoon.  And  you 
are  going!  Lucky  person!  How  very  nice.  .  .  .  Oh, 
no,"  and  perhaps  there  would  be  a  toss  of  the  head,  and 
a  laugh  with  considerable  bitterness  behind  it;  "I  assure 
you,  although  I  have  known  Miss  Workman  a  good  num- 
ber of  years,  she  has  never  honoured  me  with  an  invitation 
to  her  parties.  .  .  .  The  room's  not  large?  No,  so  I 
understand.  It  is  an  excellent  excuse.  Good  afternoon. 
I  hope  you  will  enjoy  yourself." 

But  whoever  else  might  be  left  out  at  these  delightful 
and  select  gatherings,  Alma  Reed  was  always  there.  Miss 
Workman  even  consulted  her  convenience  before  fixing  th»* 

25 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

dates.  "Alma  dear,"  she  used  to  say  just  before  the  party 
began,  "will  you  preside  at  the  tea-table  and  see  that  the 
maids  wait  properly,  and  then  I  can  circulate  freely  and 
have  a  few  words  with  everyone  in  turn.  And  keep  an 
eye  on  me,  dear — and  give  me  a  hint  if  I  seem  neglectful 
or  abstracted." 

Non-residents — people  from  the  Esplanade  Hotel,  and 
sometimes  people  of  distinction  and  quality — were  imme- 
diately presented  to  Alma.  "Dear  Alma,"  said  Miss  Work- 
man, "give  Lady  Emily  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  let  me  make 
you  known  to  each  other.  You  will  get  on  so  well  to- 
gether." 

Sometimes,  but  not  often,  quite  at  the  end  of  the  party, 
Alma  would  sing  to  the  selectest  of  the  select  guests,  who 
lingered  for  this  treat  at  Miss  Workman's  request.  She  sang 
very  prettily — in  a  sweet  and  full  contralto,  for  which  natu- 
ral taste  had  done  much  and  regular  training  very  little. 
At  home  nobody  ever  wanted  her  to  sing. 

If  by  chance  there  was  a  strange  young  gentleman  at- 
tending the  party,  some  convalescent  schoolboy  brought  by 
his  mamma,  Alma's  song  invariably  finished  him,  He  had 
felt  it  coming  on,  in  the  midst  of  his  great  shyness,  while 
the  tall  young  lady  handed  him  tea-cups  or  buns,  and  talked 
to  him  in  so  jolly  and  easy  a  style,  asking  how  and  why 
he  caught  those  stupid  measles,  and  emitting  a  sympathetic 
ripple  of  laughter  when  he  summoned  all  his  courage  to 
tell  her  a  school  anecdote.  But  now  she  gave  him  the 
coup  de  grace. 

As  she  sat  down  at  the  piano,  he  could  see  that,  although 
braver,  she  was  really  as  shy  as  himself.  She  hated  having 
to  sing;  but  she  was  too  much  of  a  ripper  to  refuse,  since 
the  old  hag  begged  for  it  as  a  favour.  Then  he  watched 
her  recover  confidence — it  was  a  beastly  grind,  but  she 
meant  to  go  through  it.     A  smile,  like  a  flicker  of  light 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

about  her  lips;  a  faint  pinkness  where  all  had  been  white- 
ness; a  resolute  lift  of  the  graceful  head,  as  if  all  that 
dark  hair  was  something  heavy,  and  not  beautiful,  to  be 
thrown  off,  forgotten ; — and  then  there  came  rolling  through 
the  warm  air  waves  of  soft  overwhelming  melody.  It  was 
like  the  bugle  call  on  the  field-days  with  the  cadet  corps, 
stimulating,  disturbing;  it  was  like  a  sword  of  flame,  pierc- 
ing, penetrating,  burning;  it  was  like  a  poison  extracted 
from  concentrated  essences  of  sweetness,  sending  a  deadly 
sugared  ecstasy  all  through  the  veins — it  made  one  feel  as 
if  lengths  of  velvet  from  an  endless  web  were  being  pulled 
over  one's  head;  as  if  one  had  been  caught  in  a  net  made 
of  beaten  gold  and  spun  glass;  as  if  one  were  a  tiny  little 
boat  being  blown  out  into  the  middle  of  a  dark  purple 
sea  under  a  blazing  crimson  sunset  sky.  And  the  young 
gentleman,  gaping,  gasping,  blushing,  unnoticed  in  a  corner, 
recognized  by  all  these  signs  that  it  had  truly  happened. 
He  was  desperately  in  love — at  first  sight. 

All  schoolboys  worshipped  Miss  Reed. 

And  perhaps  a  stepmother  might  be  forgiven  if  the  sound 
of  so  much  praise  produced  a  certain  amount  of  internal 
acidity.  "Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Reed,  "I  agree  with  every 
word.  In  many  respects  Alma  is  a  paragon.  .  .  .  My 
own  four  will  never  be  paragons.  That  is  why  I  am  giv- 
ing them  a  workaday  education,  and  not  cultivating  the 
airs  and  graces.     Don't  you  think  I'm  wise?" 

She  and  the  younger  Miss  Reeds  used  to  speak  face- 
tiously of  "Alma's  trumpeters."  Three  people  especially 
were  loudest  and  most  persistent  in  chanting  her  praise: 
Miss  Workman,  the  Catholic  priest,  and  Frances  Shipham. 
Frances  was  the  independent,  self-supporting,  journalistic 
girl  who  always  spent  Christmas  at  the  Garbetts'.  Frances 
adored  Alma.  And,  coming  straight  from  London,  where 
she  was  supposed  to  consort  with  the  brightest  spirits  of 
3  27 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

the  art  world,  she  boldly  said  that  Alma  was  the  cleverest 
and  most  accomplished  person  she  had  ever  met. 

Well,  then,  when  Alma  and  Lenny  were  seen  with  linked 
hands  at  the  skating  rink,  or  standing  at  the  bend  of  the 
sea-wall  with  shoulders  almost  touching  as  they  looked  out 
across  the  sunlit  waters,  a  good  many  observers  thought 
that  on  the  whole  she  was  worthy  of  him.  And  when  they 
saw  her  again  and  again  talking  to  Mr.  Calcraft  in  his 
Bath-chair,  seeming  not  only  to  be  suffered,  but  liked  by 
him,  walking  alongside  the  chair  to  the  very  end  of  the 
parade  and  there  helping  him  to  free  his  bear — when  they 
saw  this,  they  would  indeed  have  been  ready  to  wager  any 
stake  that  Alma  Reed  had  won  the  great  prize. 

But  all  this  was  long  ago.  Suddenly  it  appeared  that 
Miss  Reed  gave  it  up  as  a  bad  job.  She  had  left  West- 
church  for  ever.  Unhappy  at  home,  she  went  to  London 
and  joined  forces  with  Frances  Shipham.  It  was  under- 
stood that  they  lived  together.  Alma  had  some  small  inde- 
pendent means,  derived  from  her  Romish  mother — a  hun- 
dred, perhaps  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year;  and  she  was  act- 
ing as  one  of  the  secretaries  to  some  public  organization. 

Together  with  the  loud-voiced  grief  of  Miss  Workman 
and  other  staunch  friends,  there  had  been  some  rather  nasty 
unfriendly  talk  about  Alma.  People  in  small  seaside  towns 
will  talk,  and  girls  are  willing  to  say  anything  when  strug- 
gling to  give  a  jocose  turn  to  their  usually  vapid  conversa- 
tion. 

Alma  is  emancipated,  don't  you  know;  quite  up-to-date 
now — religious  and  all  other  scruples  melted  in  the  glare 
of  the  great  city.  Don't  you  believe  it?  Well,  very  likely 
it  isn't  true. 

Matrons  did  not  encourage  such  chatter.  They  said  to 
their  Marys  and  Kates,  "I  would  prefer  that  you  should 
not  speak  of  it  at  all." 

28 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Talking  to  one  another  they  said  "Yes,  Alma — or  so  I 
am  given  to  understand — is  living  with  that  queer  young 
woman,  Miss  Shipham.  They  are  two  bachelor  girls — you 
know  what  I  mean,  latchkeys  and  no  chaperon.  Personally, 
I  am  glad  that,  having  completely  cut  herself  adrift,  she 
does  not  return  to  Haven  Lodge.  It  would  be  very  awk- 
ward to  know  how  to  act.  For  I  am  particularly  anxious 
that  Mary  should  not  be  imbued  with  any  of  these  modern 
notions." 

"Yes,  that's  exactly  what  I  feel  about  Kate." 


IV 


THE  colder  winds  had  interfered  with  Mr.  Calcraft's 
outings;   the   sea-front   saw    him   but    rarely,    and 
then  only  in  brief  glimpses  of  sunshine;  he  had  be- 
come like  the  old  man  on  top  of  the  barometric  toy,  who 
creeps  out  of  his  house  to  mark  fine  weather  and  pops  in 
again  at  imperceptible  signs  of  storm. 

One  evening  after  he  had  been  confined  to  his  bedroom 
all  day,  Lenny  came  to  him  for  a  few  minutes'  chat. 

"How's  the  cough,  dad?     Easier?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

"Any  news  in  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette?" 

"Only  bad  news." 

The  papers  provided  lugubrious  reading  at  this  period 
— ugly  scenes  from  the  Boer  war,  things  going  badly  for 
England;  everything  falling;  stocks  and  shares,  reputations 
and  traditions,  hopes  and  dreams,  all,  all  falling  together. 

Lenny  could  not  stay  more  than  a  few  minutes,  because 
he  was  due  at  the  club  billiard-room  to  play  his  second 
heat  in  the  winter  tournament.  But  he  had  something  to 
say  to  his  father — something  of  weight. 

Although  the  bedroom  was  very  hot,  old  Calcraft  sat 
crouching  close  to  the  fire  with  a  shawl  round  his  shoul- 
ders and  blankets  round  his  knees.  The  nurse,  seated  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  was  knitting,  but  would  go 
on  reading  aloud  whenever  her  invalid  told  her  to  do  so. 
Lenny  sent  the  nurse  out  of  the  room,  and  approached  the 
subject  that  he  wished  to  discuss. 

30 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Father,  IVe  been  thinking  whether  I  oughtn't  to  go 
out  there,  and  take  my  share  in  this  rough-and-tumble." 

"What  are  you  talking  of?"  said  Mr.  Calcraft  queru- 
lously. 

"South  Africa.     The  war." 

"Oh!"  Mr.  Calcraft  looked  up  quickly,  interrogating 
his  son's  face,  and  then  he  looked  back  at  the  fire.  "What 
can  I  think  about  it,  my  boy?  What  do  you  think  your- 
self?" 

"Well,  of  course,  I  should  like  to  go.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  don't  like  to  leave  you." 

"That's  very  good  of  you."  Mr.  Calcraft  did  not  raise 
his  eyes  again. 

"Of  course  I  am  past  the  age." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Well — thirty-five  last  birthday.  If  military  service  was 
compulsory,  they  would  not  take  fellows  over  thirty-five." 

"Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Calcraft;  and  there  was  a  long  pause. 

Nevertheless,  as  Lenny  explained,  the  age  difficulty  was 
not  insuperable.  He  had  no  doubt  that  he  could  rejoin 
his  old  militia  regiment — he  was  sure  that  they  would  be 
glad  to  have  him  back.  They  were  to  be  embodied  almost 
immediately,  and  after  a  month's  training — according  to 
newspaper  correspondents — they  would  be  despatched  to 
the  seat  of  war.  He  spoke  wistfully  of  the  old  corps,  seem- 
ing in  imagination  to  see  the  bustle  of  preparation,  the 
camp,  the  ship,  and  finally  the  open  veldt. 

But  then,  as  he  looked  down  at  the  invalid's  white  hair 
and  tremulous  hands,  he  spoke  very  gently  and  tenderly, 
and  his  gaze  was  softened  and  veiled  by  a  perceptible 
moisture. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  tentatively,  "if  you  feel  that  you 

could  get  on  without  me — if  you  would  not  miss  me " 

And  there  was  another  long  pause. 

31 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

"Lenny,"  said  his  father,  in  a  shaky  voice,  "I  should 
miss  you.     I  should  miss  you  most  dreadfully/' 

"That  was  what  I  was  afraid  of,"  said  Lenny. 

Then  it  was  tacitly  decided  that  Lenny  would  not  leave 
his  post.  No  more  words  were  spoken,  but  it  was  under- 
stood that  the  invalid  should  not  be  deserted. 

After  his  son  had  gone  from  the  room,  Mr.  Calcraft 
sat  staring  at  the  fire  without  moving.  His  eyes  were  full 
of  tears,  and  his  hands  shook  pitiably.  It  seemed  as  though 
this  talk  about  the  war,  and  the  dread  of  losing  his  con- 
stant companion,  had  greatly  shaken  him.  But  he  burst 
into  an  unreasonable  fit  of  anger  when  presently  the  nurse 
returned  and  began  to  talk  to  him  about  local  matters  in  a 
lively  vein. 

The  invalid  had  been  very  trying  throughout  the  day, 
but  he  was  most  trying  of  all  in  this  last  hour;  and  the 
news  passed  up  and  down  the  house  that  Mr.  Leonard 
had  somehow  distressed  the  old  gentleman. 

Next  morning  bright  sunshine  streamed  into  both  of 
Lenny's  rooms  while  their  occupant,  sauntering  backwards 
and  forwards  between  the  two,  slowly  dressed  himself. 
The  bath,  certain  gymnastic  exercises  before  and  after  it, 
shaving,  anointing  his  hair  with  perfumed  oils  or  washes, 
the  thoughtful  selection  and  laying  out  of  suitable  garments 
— all  these  tasks  added  together  consumed  a  long  time.  But 
in  this  quiet  back-water  of  life  there  was  no  pressing  reason 
why  one  should  get  afloat  early  in  the  day. 

Bath  and  exercises  were  done;  he  was  in  drawers  and 
vest  now ;  and  he  idly  ambled  to  and  fro,  picking  up  a  silver- 
stoppered  bottle,  stooping  over  a  receptacle  that  held  his 
coloured  socks,  or  sliding  out  a  shelf  of  fancy  waistcoats, 
amusing  himself  rather  than  going  on  with  his  labour. 

32 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

The  sunlight  brightened  everything,  fought  the  shadows, 
and  drove  them  from  the  farthest  recesses;  so  that  the 
whole  dressing-room  seemed  as  gay  as  it  was  comfortable. 
The  door  of  a  vast  wardrobe  bore  a  panel  of  looking-glass, 
and  when  it  swung  on  its  hinges,  there  came  a  flash  across 
the  floor  and  upward  to  the  ceiling,  as  of  a  moving  rain- 
bow. Lenny  closed  the  door  and  stood  meditatively  looking 
at  himself  in  the  glass. 

Beneath  the  silk  vest  his  chest  and  shoulders  showed 
finely,  and  from  it  his  neck  rose  round  and  strong.  He 
patted  his  chest,  and,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  made  it  swell 
out  larger.  Then  he  began  gently  to  stroke  his  bare  arms. 
The  muscles  and  flesh  felt  as  if  they  wTere  moulded  into 
one  substance,  solid,  hard,  firm,  and  yet  the  skin  was  soft 
as  satin — as  smooth  to  the  touch  as  a  girl's  skin.  He  folded 
his  arms,  to  see  the  effect  of  enhanced  size  given  to  the 
fore-arms  by  this  attitude.  Posed  thus  for  a  few  moments, 
he  reminded  himself  of  a  picture  of  a  prize-fighter. 

Then,  leaning  a  little  forward,  he  studied  his  face  in 
the  glass.  Wonderful  how  long  one  can  preserve  the  sum- 
mer sun-burn  when  one  lives  by  the  sea!  December  al- 
ready, and  yet  his  cheeks  carried  the  even,  polished  tan  of 
August,  a  dark-toned  rich  glaze — such  as  you  see  in  choice 
tiles  or  well-painted  pieces  of  porcelain — which  the  autumn 
winds  seemed  merely  to  have  fixed,  instead  of  turning  it 
red  and  brick-dusty.  He  brought  his  head  close  to  the 
glass  in  order  to  investigate  his  eyes  and  their  orbits,  and 
turned  it  to  study  the  hair  on  his  temples.  The  eyes  were 
clear,  full  colour  in  the  iris  and  no  stains  or  vein-pencil- 
lings  in  the  white,  and  all  round  them  one  could  scarcely 
trace  the  little  lines  marked  by  the  years,  the  emotions,  the 
passions;  just  a  few  grey  hairs  feathered  the  curl  that  had 
been  so  cruelly  clipped  on  each  side  of  the  smooth  fore- 

33 


IN   COTTON  WOOL 

head,  but  no  more  than  he  had  seen  there  five  years  ago. 
Really,  nothing  to  complain  of — at  thirty-six.  He  smiled 
at  the  glass  before  he  turned  away  from  it. 

The  kindly  sunshine  had  drawn  him  towards  the  win- 
dow. With  its  curved  fagade  and  southern  prospect  the 
Crescent  was  like  a  sun-trap,  and  this  morning  not  the 
least  wind  struck  it.  The  window  ledge  was  quite  hot; 
the  sunbeams  made  another  bath,  a  delightful  shower  of 
soothing,  vivifying  flame. 

Down  below,  all  was  sparkling  brightness  and  gaiety.  He 
looked  at  the  friendly  jolly  little  place  lying  at  his  feet  and 
smiling  up  at  him.  The  esplanade  and  empty  band-stand; 
the  piled  beach  and  stretching  sand;  over  there  a  pleasant 
confusion  of  wooden  rampart,  upturned  boats,  extended 
nets,  and  wound  cordage;  the  grassy  mound  that  gave  shel- 
ter to  the  club  premises,  and  above  their  red  roof  the  flag- 
staff that  indicated  the  position  of  the  new  life-boat  house — 
how  well  he  knew  it  all,  and  yet  how  fresh  and  pretty 
it  seemed  in  its  familiarity  and  insignificance! 

The  harbour  was  out  of  sight;  but  beyond  the  houses 
you  had  the  broad  estuary,  with  the  sandy  ridge  of  the 
islands,  and  the  further  shore,  hill-topped,  wooded,  faint 
now  at  its  nearest  point,  and  growing  rapidly  fainter  as 
it  ran  away  westward  to  fade  in  the  golden  mist  far  out 
at  sea.  Fishermen's  boats  with  brown  sails  one  after  an- 
other came  round  the  point,  and  gently  drifted  off  towards 
the  deep  fields  where  to-night  they  would  snatch  their 
harvest ;  and  two  clumsy  brigs  beat  about  the  islands,  stand- 
ing off  and  on  as  they  felt  for  the  channel  or  waited  for  the 
tide — like  two  blind  men  groping  at  the  door  behind  which 
lay  rest  and  shelter.  In  the  silence  and  the  sunlight  the 
whole  scene  seemed  so  calm  and  peaceful  that  one  could 
scarcely  believe  there  might  be  storms  here,  or  anywhere 
else  in  the  world. 

34 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

The  peace  of  it  crept  into  his  heart,  and  he  sat  lazily 
basking  by  the  open  window. 

Miss  Workman  had  once  asked  him  if  he  ever  thought 
of  himself;  but  that  was  palpably  a  ridiculous  question. 
Since  we  ourselves  are  at  once  the  source,  the  bed,  and  the 
driving  energy  of  the  only  stream  of  thought  we  really 
know,  how  can  we  hope  that  its  swift  unceasing  flow  shall 
ever  be  untinged  by  the  colour  of  personal  elements? 

In  a  sense  Lenny  possessed  considerable  range  of  thought. 
He  was  imaginative,  with  great  power  of  mental  visuali- 
zation; his  thought  roved  freely  through  the  past  and  the 
future — and  things  unseen  were  almost  as  vivid  and  clearly 
defined  as  the  seen  things. 

It  might  be  said  that  he  had  fully  what  is  described  as 
one  particular  attribute  of  genius;  for  him,  as  for  the  mas- 
ter minds,  the  past  remained  open,  accessible,  permanent; 
nothing  of  it  was  forgotten;  all  that  he  had  once  lived 
through  he  could  live  through  again — was  indeed  forced 
to  do  so,  in  certain  episodes,  against  his  will. 

He  remembered  voluptuous  thrills  given  to  him  by  women 
just  as  he  remembered  pleasures  of  the  table,  or  the  healthy 
rapture  of  a  gallop  between  the  fence  he  had  leapt  and  the 
fence  that  lay  before  him.  In  a  moment  the  past  was  pres- 
ent— the  unveiled  quivering  mystery  of  alcoved  darkness; 
the  diffused  glow  of  satisfaction  beneath  the  shaded  candles 
of  a  restaurant;  or  the  thud  of  flying  hoofs,  the  wind  of 
swift  motion,  the  tense  delight  of  violent  effort,  in  the 
bright  winter  sunlight  of  the  Midland  pasture.  To  the 
impulse  of  awakened  memory  every  sense  organ  responded 
with  startling  promptness,  gave  off  again  a  fresh  wave 
along  the  once-travelled  path  of  reception,  until  the  co- 
ordinated group  of  images,  sensations,  thoughts,  was  again 
firmly  established  as  a  whole. 

"What  is  it?    Don't  come  in." 

35 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

A  tap  at  the  door  and  a  voice  outside  had  interrupted  his 
reverie. 

"Your  shirts,  sir." 

One  of  the  maids  had  brought  a  tray  of  shirts,  and  was 
standing  outside  the  door.  He  opened  it  a  couple  of  inches 
and  talked  to  her. 

"Have  you  aired  them?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I've  shown  them  to  the  fire." 

"But — I  say — I  want  them  to  be  more  than  shown  to 
the  fire.  I  want  them  to  be  properly  introduced.  I  want 
it  to  be  a  regular  acquaintance;"  and  he  laughed  cheerily. 

"All  right,  sir;"  and  the  girl  laughed  too. 

"Good  people  are  scarce,  you  know;"  and  they  both 
laughed. 

Then  he  shut  the  door,  and  went  on  with  his  dressing. 
As  he  pottered  about  the  room  he  felt  extraordinarily  happy 
and  light-hearted — at  peace  with  the  universe  and  every 
living  creature  in  it. 

He  was  a  long  time  dressing — but  why  hurry?  This 
golden  sunny  day  would  last — not  a  threatening  cloud  from 
zenith  to  horizon.  The  tranquil  night's  rest  had  restored 
his  supply  of  nerve- force;  he  felt  fit  and  hearty;  his  sun- 
bath  at  the  window  seemed  to  have  filled  him  to  the  brim 
with  genial  sympathies,  pleasant  fancies,  evenly  balanced 
hopes. 


V 


AFTER  breakfast  he  did  a  little  shopping  in  the  town 
— one  of  Dr.  Searle's  prescriptions  to  be  taken  to 
the  chemist,  cigarettes  to  be  ordered  from  the  tobac- 
conist, a  jacket  to  be  tried  on  at  the  tailor's; — and,  wher- 
ever he  went,  he  enjoyed  an  unusual  sense  of  gaiety  and 
contentment.  The  respectful  salutations  of  tradesmen  and 
the  amiable  greetings  of  friends  seemed  to  carry  on  and  in- 
tensify the  kindly  work  of  the  sunshine:  they  enhanced 
one's  internal  store  of  warmth  and  well-being. 

In  twenty  minutes  he  had  talked  to  more  than  twenty 
people.  This  morning  it  appeared  as  though  he  was  known 
to  everybody,  gentle  or  simple,  and  the  attention  of  those 
whom  he  himself  did  not  know  seemed  quite  natural,  even 
when  quite  unexpected.  However  small  the  stage,  we  like 
to  feel  that  we  are  occupying  the  centre  of  it;  and  no  mat- 
ter how  little  important  our  part,  there  is  a  pleasure  in  the 
thought  that  for  the  moment  we  are  dominating  the  scene, 
concentrating  the  gaze  of  all  eyes,  obliterating  the  general 
interest  in  the  rest  of  the  characters. 

Popular,  widely-recognized,  promptly  welcomed,  Lenny 
could  easily  have  indulged  and  fostered  the  illusion  that  he 
was  the  central  figure  in  the  town's  life,  or  the  favourite 
actor  of  its  daily  drama.  Just  now,  while  he  sat  at  break- 
fast, these  streets  were  dark  and  silent ;  but  now  the  curtain 
had  gone  up,  lights  were  turned  on,  he  had  appeared. 

And  the  scenic  background  before  which  he  moved 
seemed  to  him  more  than  adequate:  it  was  charming.  Pass- 
ing from  High  Street  to   Duke  Street,  he  had  a  glimpse 

37 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

into  Nelson  Square,  and  thought  he  had  never  seen  it  look- 
ing so  pretty.  The  sunshine  struck  against  the  red-brick 
tower  of  the  church,  the  white  windows  and  green  shut- 
ters of  sedate  houses,  and  the  topmost  branches  of  the  bare 
trees  above  which  rooks  cawed  and  fluttered;  and  in  the 
shadow  thrown  by  the  church  some  children  were  crossing 
the  road  and  coming  towards  him.  Presently,  as  they 
advanced,  the  sunlight  fell  upon  their  faces,  and  the  sha- 
dow receded  to  their  waists,  to  their  ankles,  so  that  they 
seemed  as  if  they  were  wading  through  grey  transparent 
water. 

He  had  paused  to  watch  them;  and  to  his  surprise  he 
found  that  one  of  them,  the  smallest,  was  crying. 

"What's  the  matter,  my  dear?"  He  patted  her  tear- 
laden  cheek,  and  then  turned  to  the  others  reproachfully. 
"Why  is  she  crying?  Poor  little  thing — I  hope  you 
haven't  been  unkind  to  her." 

"Oh,  no,  sir.  She  cries  for  nothing.  She  don't  know 
what  she's  crying  for — mother'll  tell  you  just  the  same." 

"See  now!"  He  was  stooping  over  the  child  and  smil- 
ing at  her.  "If  I  give  you  this  to  buy  sweeties  or  something 
nice,  will  you  be  happy  again?  .  .  .  There.  That's 
right." 

The  child  had  taken  the  silver  coin,  and,  clasping  it 
tight,  instantly  checked  her  tears  and  lamentations. 

Two  ladies — Mrs.  Scott  and  Mrs.  Oliver — called  to 
Lenny  from  the  opposite  pavement.  Unobserved  on  the 
threshold  of  Randies'  drug  store,  they  had  been  witnesses 
of  his  gentleness  and  generosity. 

"That  was  like  you,  Mr.  Lenny — always  trying  to  make 
people  happy;"  and   Mrs.   Oliver  beamed  at  him. 

"And  you  know  the  right  way  to  children's  hearts,"  said 
Mrs.  Scott  appreciatively. 

"Poor  little  beggars,"  said   Lenny  in  a  light  tone,   dis- 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

regarding  unnecessary  and  uninvited  compliments.  "I  hate 
to  see  'em  blubbering — always  makes  me  think  they  have 
been   ill-treated.     .     .     .     We  shall  meet  on  the   front?" 

He  went  down  narrow  sloping  Harbour  Street,  between 
the  queer  little  flint  houses  with  their  bulging  bow  windows 
and  squat  doorways.  The  street  was  so  narrow  that  it 
made  a  long  dark  peep-hole  to  the  sea;  and  here,  walking 
for  the  first  time  in  shadow,  Lenny  felt  something  cold 
and  uncomfortable. 

It  was  the  distant  formal  recognition  of  Father  Mar- 
chant,  the  Catholic  priest,  who  emerged  from  one  of  the 
humblest  of  the  flint  houses.  This  Mr.  Marchant  was  a 
tall  old  man  with  a  clear-cut,  clean-shaven  face  and  the 
bloodless,  ivory-tinted  complexion  that  seems  to  suggest  the 
ascetic  renouncements  of  priestly  duties,  celibate  vows,  and 
vegetarian  habits;  he  had  a  great  air  of  dignity,  even  of 
stateliness,  on  ceremonious  occasions;  but,  as  Lenny  knew, 
he  could  and  did  often  unbend,  would  laugh,  tell  jovial 
anecdotes,  take  a  hand  at  cards  or  play  a  romping  game — 
in  a  word,  could  be  as  jolly  as  anybody  else.  Lenny 
used  to  meet  him  at  dinner  at  the  Reeds',  and  in  the  old 
days  they  always  got  on  well  together. 

Yet  from  him  had  come  the  only  snub  or  rebuff  that 
Lenny  had  ever  received  in  Westchurch.  The  priest  was 
getting  up  some  fund,  to  which  apparently  heretics  as  well 
as  the  faithful  were  invited  to  subscribe;  but  when  Lenny 
cheerily  offered  his  subscription,  it  was  refused.  Lenny 
laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  good-humouredly.  You 
can't  quarrel  with  a  man  for  letting  you  off  cheap  when 
you  thought  you  were  bound  to  stump  up — least  of  all 
with  a  f rocked  and  collared  senior.  And  indeed  Mr.  Mar- 
chant  gave  him  no  excuse  for  a  quarrel. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said;  "but  really  I  don't  feel  justi- 
fied.    Our  fund— it  is,  strictly  speaking,  connected  with  the 

39 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

church — is  doing  excellently;  so  I  should  have  no  excuse." 
And  he  was  courteous  in  replying  to  a  further  inquiry  of 
Lenny's.  "No,  it  is  not  exactly  our  rule — and  every  rule, 
Mr.  Calcraft,  has  exceptions.  But  in  this  case  I  can  only 
thank  you,  while  declining  to  avail  myself  of  your  assist- 
ance." 

After  this  Lenny  had  often  pondered  upon  the  matter, 
seeking  some  explanation  of  how  and  why  the  priest  should 
have  become  so  hostile  to  him.  Or  was  it,  after  all,  a 
mere  fancy  of  his  own? 

To-day,  however,  he  could  not  be  in  doubt.  They  met 
face  to  face  on  the  narrow  pavement,  and,  as  acknowledg- 
ment of  Lenny's  cheery  good-morning,  the  priest  took  off 
his  hat  and  silently  bowed.  The  stately  salute  was  accom- 
panied with  a  glance  that  seemed  rather  stern,  very  cold, 
and  unquestionably  inimical.  Mr.  Marchant  could  no 
longer  be  counted  as  a  friend. 

Not  that  it  mattered,  either  way — only,  coming  after 
so  much  welcoming  friendliness,  striking  one  who  had  been 
steeped  in  the  genial  atmosphere  of  popularity,  it  produced 
a  slight  but  wide  superficial   chill. 

Very  soon  the  sunshine  warmed  him  again.  He  was 
out  in  the  open  now,  on  the  esplanade,  with  the  delightful 
breath  of  the  sea  like  an  innocent  caress  softly  touching 
his  face;  and  he  quickened  his  footsteps,  threw  back  his 
head,  and  swung  along  jauntily.  There  was  a  real  friend 
in  sight  now — young  Gerald  Dryden,  gesticulating  and 
talking  volubly  to  three  girls  who  leaned  their  backs  against 
the  wooden  rails,  and  laughed  so  loudly  that  one  could 
hear  them  when  fifty  yards  away. 

The  receding  figure  of  Mr.  Reed,  who  with  vague  dreamy 
air  and  shambling  uncertain  gait  had  just  passed  by  on 
his  way  to  the  golf  links,  told  Lenny  what  the  young 
people  were  laughing  about. 

40 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Perhaps  the  only  salient  or  concrete  fact  that  shadowy 
Mr.  Reed  offered  for  the  consideration  of  the  world  was 
his  golf.  He  furnished  a  rare  instance  of  a  man  who 
would  never,  could  never  learn  the  game.  He  had  taken 
it  up  fifteen  years  ago,  when  the  links  were  opened,  and 
had  been  getting  worse  ever  since.  At  first  he  had  a 
handicap  of  eighteen;  then  at  his  request  he  was  advanced 
to  twenty- four ;  and  then  the  committee  gave  him  a  handi- 
cap of  thirty,  to  enable  him  to  play  with  the  ladies.  Now 
no  one  of  either  sex  would  play  with  him,  He  played 
alone,  every  day — never  practising, — simply  attacking  the 
course  in  solitary  ardour; — and  the  joke  was  to  calculate 
his  real  handicap  on  form,  getting  the  caddies  to  count  his 
actual  strokes  for  the  completed  round.  The  caddies  al- 
ways counted,  but  they  could  make  only  an  approximate 
return — because  there  were  so  many  have-backs,  miss-fires, 
and  lost  balls.  Nevertheless  their  report  supplied  sufficient 
data  for  the  maintenance  of  an  old-established  jest,  and  it 
had  been  recently  decided  that  Mr.  Reed's  authentic  and 
justifiable  handicap  was  two  hundred  and  eleven. 

But  the  little  group  at  the  railings  had  ceased  to  laugh 
before  they  were  joined  by  Lenny.  From  discussion  of 
the  father  they  had  drifted  to  the  subject  of  his  daughter. 
The  young  ladies  had  endeavoured  to  be  funny  on  this 
subject  also,  talking  lightly  and  disparagingly  of  Alma 
Reed,  and  the  young  man  had  burst  forth  in  her  defence. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Leonard,"  said  one  of  the  girls,  "do  come  to 
our  rescue.     He  is  being  so  rude." 

"Oh,  surely  not?"  said  Lenny,  smiling  at  them  all. 

"But,  he  is,"  said  another  girl — "hideously  rude." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Dryden  bluntly,  "it's  better  to  be 
rude,  than  spiteful  and  malicious — any  day  of  the  week." 

"Oh,"  and  the  third  girl  gave  a  little  squeak  of  protest. 
"How  horrid  he  is!     Mr.  Lenny,  don't  let  him  go  on." 

41 


IN   COTTON  WOOL 

But  the  young  man  would  go  on.  He  said  nothing 
could  be  so  horrid  as  saying  unkind  things  behind  people's 
backs,  and  he  continued  his  enthusiastic  praise  of  the  absent 
Alma. 

The  girls  winced  beneath  the  masculine  eloquence,  and 
Lenny  smiled  at  them  sympathetically.  They  looked  not 
exactly  pretty,  but  seductively  fresh  and  clean;  the  breeze 
blowing  through  the  railings  was  just  strong  enough  to 
plaster  their  cloth  skirts  about  their  firm  legs,  to  set  their 
Tarn  o'  Shanters  flopping,  disarrange  their  hair,  and  make 
their  faces  glow;  a  knitted  scarf  of  mauve  colour  streamed 
out  like  a  signal  pennant  till  its  owner  with  graceful  move- 
ments gave  it  another  turn  round  her  neck. 

The  young  man  confronted  them  in  an  attitude  of  almost 
wrathful  vigour,  his  black  billycock  tilted  to  the  back  of 
his  head,  his  honest  but  perhaps  rather  common  face  suf- 
fused with  a  hot  blush,  his  mouth  opening  and  shutting 
even  in  moments  of  silence,  and  a  contraction  and  expan- 
sion of  his  wide  nostrils  alternating  spasmodically. 

"And  couldn't  she  sing?"  he  went  on,  very  loudly. 
"By  Jupiter,  could  any  of  you  dare  to  sing  after  her? 
.  .  .  And — and  do  any  of  3  ou  go  about  among  the  poor 
as  she  did?  Ask  down  there,"  and  he  pointed  violently 
towards  the  harbour,  "in  Rose  Cottages  or  Haven  Lane, 
what  they  thought  of  her — and  if  they  don't  miss  her. 
Or  ask  the  people  who  fancy  themselves.  Ask  the  nobs," 
and  he  swung  round  and  pointed  in  the  other  direction. 
"Ask  Miss  Workman — whom  you're  always  sucking  up 
to.  Ask  Miss  Workman  what  she  thinks.  I  bet  she's 
of  my  opinion — and  you  shall  have  it,  for  both  of  us. 
You  were  all  beastly  jealous  of  Alma  Reed,  and  you're 
none  of  you  fit  to  tie  her  shoe-laces;"  and  he  blew  out  his 
cheeks  and  snorted. 

"Oh,  really,"  said  Miss  Malins,  the  oldest  of  the  girls. 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"I'm  not  going  to  stay  and  be  abused  like  this.  .  .  . 
Good-morning,   Mr.  Calcraft." 

The  other  two  girls  laughed  constrainedly  and  followed 
Miss  Malins;  but  the  girl  with  the  mauve  scarf  paused 
to  fire  a  parting  and  obliquely  aimed  shot. 

"Mr.  Lenny,  please  teach  him  manners.  I  don't  think 
he's  a  bit  nice — in  spite  of  all  your  recommendations." 

But  for  the  fact  that  Lenny  had  vouched  for  him,  young 
Gerald  Dryden  might  never  have  been  accepted  on  equal 
terms  in  the  higher  society  of  Westchurch.  As  the  son 
of  the  local  auctioneer,  he  could  scarcely  aspire  to  such 
honours;  moreover,  many  social  critics,  condemning  his 
free  and  easy  manner,  his  noisy  tones,  and  confident  way 
of  carrying  himself,  classed  him  as  a  bounder.  However, 
he  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  Lenny;  and  Lenny,  perhaps 
touched  by  a  devotion  that  was  as  sincere  as  it  was  artless, 
shielded  and  protected  him  from  the  effects  of  adverse  criti- 
cism, gave  him  useful  hints  as  to  dress  and  deportment, 
and  insisted  that  he  should  be  admitted  a  member  of  the 
club. 

"Hullo,  Lenny,"  Colonel  Blacklock  had  said.  "What's 
this  about  young  Dryden?     D'you  really  mean  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lenny.  "He's  all  right — quite  a  good 
sort." 

"Lenny  says  he  is  all  right" — the  news  flew  round. 
"Colonel  Blacklock  says  he  is  all  right."  .  .  .  "They 
have  elected  him  to  the  club,  so  he  must  be  all  right," 
Thenceforth  he  was  considered   all  right  by  everybody. 

Admirer  and  protector  walked  along  side  by  side  now, 
and  all  the  world  might  see  the  terms  of  complete  intimacy 
that  existed  between  them.  The  elder  gently  reproved 
the  younger  for  his  recent  warmth,  and  added  that  it 
was  always  a  mistake  to  excite  oneself  about  nothing. 

"Yes,"  said  Dryden,  cool  and  collected  again,  "I  made 
i  43 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

an  ass  of  myself.  I  don't  care.  Those  girls  are  such  rot- 
ters." Then,  linking  his  arm  with  Lenny's,  he  asked  a 
question.  "Lenny,  when  you  were  my  age,  had  you  ever 
been  in  love?" 

Lenny  laughed.  "My  dear  boy,  at  least  a  hundred 
times." 

"Can  you  remember  the  first  time — the  first  person  who 
ever  bowled  you  over?" 

"No,  I'm  afraid  I  can't." 

"Well,  the  first  person,"  and  Gerald  Dryden  hesitated — 
"the  first  time  I  fell  in  love — it  was  Alma  Reed." 

"Really?" 

"But  the  funny  thing  is  this — I'm  in  love  with  her  still." 

"What — does  absence  make  the  heart  grow  fonder?" 

"Yes."  And  Dryden  told  Lenny  how  sweet  and  kind 
Miss  Reed  had  been  to  him  when  he  was  a  boy  of  four- 
teen. He  had  met  her  for  the  first  time  one  Christmas 
holidays  at  a  semi-public  juvenile  ball.  "The  mater  took 
me,  and — well,  Alma  Reed  saw  that  we  were  feeling  jolly 
well  out  of  it.  I  couldn't  dance;  anH  the  mater  was  too 
shy  to  push  herself  forward.  So  Miss  Reed — it's  dashed 
cheek  of  me  to  call  her  Alma — came  over  to  us,  and  was 
awfully  jolly  to  the  mater,  and  made  the  other  boys  talk 
to  me." 

"Yes.     Go  on." 

"After  that  I  was  her  slave.  And  she  never  knew  it, 
but  often  spoke  to  me — if  I  saw  her  in  the  street,  any- 
where,— asking  me  what  I  intended  to  do  and  to  be — 
and  so  on." 

"Yes?     I  am  enormously  interested,  Gerald." 

Gerald  glanced   at  his  friend,   and  hesitated. 
"I  was  half  mad  with  jealousy  of  you,  Lenny.     .     .     . 
She  showed — or  I  thought  she  showed — that  she  was  very 
fond  of  you.     .     .     .     But  you  didn't  think  much  of  her." 

44 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Lenny,  "I  had,  and  I  still  have,  an 
immense  respect  for  Miss  Reed." 

"Have  you?"  And  the  young  man  looked  at  him  with 
cordial  affection.  "But  you  didn't  stick  up  for  her  just 
now." 

Lenny  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Is  it  ever  worth  while 
noticing  that  sort  of  thing?  I  didn't  hear  what  they  said 
— but  I  guess  very  well  what  it  amounted  to.  Frankly, 
when  girls  talk  of  another  girl  in  that  style,  they  are  be- 
neath contempt." 

"So  they  were.  I  as  good  as  told  them  so,  didn't  I? 
But  I  wish  you  had  let  'em  see  you  thought  the  same." 

"I  fancy  they  gathered  that,  from  my  silence." 

"Of  course,"  said  Gerald,  musingly,  "she  had  a  rotten 
time  at  home.  They  were  pigs  to  her.  I  don't  wonder 
she  chucked  them,  and  went  to  live  on  her  own.  But  I 
wish  she'd  come  back  and  show  herself  sometimes.  That 
might  put  the  lid  on  half  of  all  this  cackling." 

And  then  Gerald  with  sentimental  diffidence  spoke  of 
what  he  called  his  dream.  If  ever  he  were  independent 
and  prosperous,  he  would  go  and  fish  out  Miss  Reed  and 
ask  her  to  marry  him. 

Lenny  stopped  short,  and  laid  his  hand  on  Gerald's 
shoulder. 

"Gerald,  take  my  advice  and  renounce  your  childish 
dream.     Give  up   that  idea." 

"Why?" 

"For  many  reasons." 

"I  don't  see  any  of  them.  .  .  .  I've  been  in  love 
with  her  tor  eight  years — I  shall  never  get  her  out  of  my 
head." 

"To  begin  with,  Alma  is  much  older  than  you." 
"I  don't  mind  that.     It  is  my  chance.     Probably  when 
I  am  ready,  she'll  be  much  older  still — and  then  it  may 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

not  seem  to  her  that  she  is  so  completely  chucking  herself 
away,   if  she  says  yes." 

"But  it  would  be  an  unsuitable  alliance.  Gerald,  take 
it  from  me.  If  you  hold  to  this  idea,  you  will  meet  with 
certain   disappointment." 

Young  Dryden's  face  clouded,  and  he  looked  at  Lenny 
searchingly. 

"Does  that  mean  you  don't  think  she  is — you  yourself 
believe  the  talk?" 

"No.     Certainly  not." 

The  earnestness  and  decision  with  which  Lenny  gave 
this  assurance  promptly  changed  the  troubled,  darkened 
aspect  of  Gerald's  face  to  an  expression  of  youthful  self- 
confidence. 

"Very  well.  Then  I  intend  to  go  on  with  it.  A  man 
is  all  the  better  for  a  fixed  ambition — a  guiding  star — 
you  know  what  I  mean, — even  if  he  fails  in  the  end.  I 
shall  steer  my  course  for  the  star." 

"Then  remember,  when  the  disappointment  comes,"  said 
Lenny  very  impressively,  "I  warned  you — that  is,  I  gave 
you  my  strong  advice.  .  .  .  But  what  nonsense  ail  this 
is!"  And  he  laughed.  "You  and  I  can't  keep  ourselves, 
much  less  keep  wives." 

"Not  yet,   Lenny — but   one   day." 

They  had  walked  far  out  beyond  the  sea-wall  and  the 
links,  to  the  grassy  slopes  of  a  rising  cliff,  and  now  they 
turned  and  came  homeward  at  a  slower  pace.  Nearly 
all  the  way  back,  till  they  reached  the  band-stand,  they 
were  talking  of  Gerald's  future. 

Gerald  spoke  sadly  and  regretfully  of  another  of  his 
dreams,  one  that  he  had  already  been  forced  to  abandon. 
"The  governor"  would  not  let  him  be  a  soldier. 

"And  perhaps,"  said  Lenny  gently,  "your  father  is  wise 

4G 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

in  thwarting  you.     It  seems  to  me,  the  army  is  no  profes- 
sion." 

"A  man  can  make  it  one.  Look  at  your  pal  George 
Verinder.  See  what  he  has  done.  And  think  of  what  is 
going  on  at  this  moment.  It's  the  beginning  of  a  new 
era — everybody  says  so." 

Then  the  young  man  explained  that  he  had  defeated 
the  governor  in  some  terrible  family  debates.  No  power 
on  earth  will  ever  make  him  consent  to  follow  in  the 
paternal  footsteps  as  an  auctioneer.  This  point  at  least  is 
settled.     He  is  going  to  be  an  electrical  engineer. 

"That  I  don't  mind.  It's  honest  straightforward  work; 
and  if  you  have  to  hide  anything,  it's  only  your  live  wires 
— and  you  conceal  them  for  the  safety  and  convenience  of 
the  public.  But  the  other  thing's  rotten — all  underground 
— won't  bear  inspection.  It  suits  the  governor  because 
he  has  been  at  it  all  his  life,  but  it  wouldn't  suit  yours 
truly;"  and  Mr.  Dryden  junior  contemptuously  hammered 
the  railings  with  his  stick.  "For  the  last  time,  gentlemen — 
going — gone!     No  thank  you." 

Lenny  smiled,  but  nevertheless  reproved  him  for  adopt- 
ing so  scornful  a  tone  when  speaking  of  a  parent. 

"Yes,"  said  Dryden,  "I  thought  you'd  say  that.  But, 
you  know,  all  fathers  and  sons  aren't  the  same.  There 
never  has  been  any  real  affection  between  my  governor 
and  me." 

"No?" 

Lenny  of  a  sudden  had  become  absent-minded,  and  he 
was  staring  at  Dryden's  brown  boots. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  Dryden  asked  uneasily. 
"What's  wrong?" 

"Not  brown  boots,  Gerald,  with  a  black  bowler — black 
boots!" 

47 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Is  that  so?" 
'  "Yes,"  said  Lenny  gravely.  "I  was  just  thinking  hovr 
nicely  you  were  dressed — but  the  boots  spoil  it.  Quite 
right,  if  you  were  wearing  a  Homburg  hat,  but  not  with 
a  hard  felt — a  black  hard  felt.  .  .  .  Another  thing! 
/  always  think  it's  a  dangerous  experiment  to  wear  a  silk 
tie  with  what  I  call  a  knock-about  suit.  .  .  .  You  see, 
Gerald,  you  are  such  a  fine,  well-set-up  chap ,  that  you 
ought  to  do  yourself  justice." 

Dryden  blushed,  but  he  was  profoundly  pleased.  He 
thanked  his  friend  with  warm  gratitude  for  these  hints. 
Then  he  laughed  joyously. 

"How  is  it,  Lenny,  that  when  you  say  anything,  I  like 
it — whereas,  if  any  other  fellow  said  it,  I  should  merely 
want  to  kick  him?  How  do  you  always  contrive  to  gild 
the  pill,  and  make  a  snub  seem  as  pleasant  as  a  pat  on 
the  back?"  Admiration  and  regard  shone  out  of  his  eyes 
as  he  looked  at  Lenny.  "It's  what  we  all  feel — what 
old  Verinder  said — it  sums  it  up.     You're  a  tip-topper." 

"Bosh!  I  think  you  have  all  entered  into  a  conspiracy 
to  spoil  me."  They  were  drawing  near  the  club,  and 
Lenny  glanced  at  his  handsome  gold  watch.  "I  am  going 
in,  to  run  through  the  illustrated  papers;  and  I've  only 
just  time  before  luncheon.  Father  doesn't  like  me  to  be 
late." 


VI 


HE  was  very  fond  of  the  little  club,  in  which  for 
years  he  had  enjoyed  a  supreme  influence,  and  where 
he  was  always  welcomed  with  acclamation,  no  mat- 
ter how  frequently  he  visited  it.  As  a  fact,  he  was  an  as- 
siduous attendant. 

"Where's  Lenny  Calcraft?"  members  used  to  say  of 
an  evening.  "I  thought  he'd  be  with  us  before  now. 
Nearly   ten    o'clock!" 

"Perhaps  he  isn't  coming  to-night.  The  old  boy  may 
be  worse.     .     .     .     Ah!" 

"Hullo,  Lenny!  Talk  of  an  angel!  We'd  almost  given 
you  up." 

Before  sitting  down  to  the  card  table,  he  often  reported 
progress  to  Dr.  Searle. 

"Father  was  very  restless  this  evening.  Nothing  appears 
to  interest  him.  He  has  lost  his  pleasure  in  being  read 
aloud  to." 

"Has  he  taken  the  cough  mixture?  .  .  .  Very  good. 
I  will  look  in  to-morrow  morning.  Don't  worry  your- 
self;" and  then  Dr.  Searle  would  go  to  the  billiard-room, 
and  Lenny  to  the  card-room. 

If  nights  were  wet  and  boisterous,  Lenny  used  to  ap- 
proach his  goal  by  back  streets,  going  behind  the  Crescent 
instead  of  in  front,  and  reaching  the  club's  side  entrance 
without  exposing  himself  to  the  full  fury  of  the  tempest. 

On  one  such  night  during  this  winter  time,  when  the 

49 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

wind  was  roaring,  and  rain  was  driving,  and  Lenny  had 
come  by  the  backway,  the  club  seemed  to  him  most  ex- 
traordinarily snug  and  pleasant.  There  was  noise  and 
laughter  and  vivid  light  issuing  from  the  billiard-room, 
while  a  soberer  mirth  and  a  more  subdued  radiance  came 
through  the  open  doors  of  the  card-room.  To-night  all 
internal  doors  were  open,  and  all  windows  hermetically 
closed,  in  order  to  give  members  a  little  ventilation  with- 
out allowing  them  to  be  blown  out  of  their  chairs.  There 
were  two  bridge  tables  actively  engaged,  and  Lenny's  ar- 
rival made  up  a  third.  Colonel  Blacklock,  Mr.  Price- 
Young,  and  Mr.  Underwood — all  oldish  men — had  refused 
to  cut  in  till  now;  they  shunned  the  chance  of  partnership 
with  certain  juvenile  and  erratic  performers,  and  they  loved 
to  play  with  Lenny. 

The  cards  fell  from  dealers'  hands  with  a  light  patter 
on  the  green  cloth,  as  of  leaves  from  some  choice  and 
carefully  tended  shrub,  falling  in  a  hot-house;  the  window 
sashes  rattled  angrily,  a  trembling  vibration  ran  across  the 
wooden  floor,  fierce  gusts  buffeted  walls,  roof,  chimneys; 
and  the  contrast  between  the  cold  violence  out  there  and 
the  warm  peace  in  here  seemed  to  add  a  delightful  zest  to 
one's  amusement,  and  to  draw  the  whole  sheltered  com- 
munity into  a  closer  circle  of  intimacy,  kindness,  and  cheer- 
ful feeling. 

Shadwell,  the  steward — an  old  and  faithful  servant — 
carrying  round  the  first  tray  of  drinks,  gave  trite  expres- 
sion to  the  general  sentiment  when  he  said  to  Lenny,  "I'd 
rather  be  indoors  than  out  of  doors  to-night,  sir." 

"Yes,  by  George,"  said  Mr.  Price- Young,  "I  agree  with 
you,  Shadwell." 

"Never  knew  it  come  on  to  blow  so  quick,  or  so  hard, 
sir.     It's  fit  to  blow  the  house  down." 

The  card-players  laughed  and  chaffed;  after  each  rubber 

50 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

there  was  a  chorus  of  chatter;  everybody  wanted  to  pay  for 
everybody  else's  drink,  and  old  Shadwell  was  kept  on  the 
trot. 

Then  there  was  mild  excitement,  and  temporary  inter- 
ruption. Shadwell  failed  to  answer  the  bell;  someone 
said  he  heard  voices  shouting  outside  in  the  darkness;  some- 
one said  he  thought  he  had  heard  guns.  Players  at  two 
tables  got  up,  pulled  curtains  aside,  and  peered  through 
'  the  wet  window  panes.  One  or  two  men  laid  down  their 
cards,  and  went  into  front  rooms  to  inquire  or  see  for 
themselves  what  was  really  happening. 

Then,  all  at  once,  young  Dryden  in  his  shirt  sleeves, 
with  his  billiard  cue  in  his  hand,  came  shouting  at  the  open 
door  of  the  card-room. 

"It's  a  wreck!  A  wreck!"  And,  still  shouting,  he  dis- 
appeared. 

"What  an  infernal  row  they're  making!"  said  Colonel 
Blacklock.  "Whose  card  is  that?  ...  I  suppose  I 
mustn't  ask  to  see  the  last  trick?" 

"No,   I'm   afraid  not,"  said  Lenny. 

No  one  at  his  table  had  stirred!  and  presently  the  noise 
and  excitement  came  to  an  end.  The  players  at  the  other 
tables  sat  down  again;  the  cards  fell  lightly  and  rhythmic- 
ally; the  steward  brought  in  tray  after  tray  of  drink,  and 
slowly  but  delightfully  the  snug  and  comfortable  evening 
wore  itself  out. 

When  members  were  going  home,  the  wind,  even  in 
back  streets,  was  so  tremendous  that  Colonel  Blacklock 
felt  glad  to  accept  the  stalwart  arm  of  Lenny  Calcraft. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  fellow!  Something  solid  to  cling 
on  to." 

And  Lenny  confessed  that,  measuring  himself  the  other 
day,  before  starting  some  new  exercises,  he  found  his  fore- 
arm and  the  biceps  quite  unusually  well-developed. 

51 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Solid  all  through,"  said  Colonel  Blacklock.  "By  Jove, 
it's  like  walking  home  with  a  Martello  tower." 

Next  day  all  the  town  was  talking  about  the  wreck, 
and  the  splendid  rescue  effected  by  the  lifeboat.  No 
lives  lost; — and  seven  lives  saved — by  the  heroism  and 
promptitude  of  these  lifeboat  men.  The  shipwrecked  sail- 
ors had  been  fed,  and  clothed,  and  sent  on  their  way  to 
London,  before  Lenny  got  up;  but  the  local  heroes  re- 
mained, to  sun  themselves  in  the  kind  words  and  kinder 
looks  shed  upon  them  by  admiring  citizens.  All  praised 
their  action;  and  Lenny  himself  joined  the  chorus  late  that 
afternoon. 

The  wind  had  abated,  but  the  sea  still  ran  high;  clouds 
were  racing  overhead;  and  sea  gulls,  driven  inland  by  the 
gale,  flew  low  and  warily,  while  Lenny  in  his  tarpaulin 
coat  stood  outside  the  big  doors  of  the  lifeboat  house  and 
talked  to  the  weather-beaten  men.  The  men  surrounded 
him,  nodding  their  heads,  grinning,  and  pointing  across 
the  waves  to  the  black,  dismasted,  broken-backed  vessel. 
Promenaders  stopped  and  made  an  outer  ring;  Lenny 
formed  the  attractive  nucleus  of  a  growing  crowd;  the 
concentrated  eyes  of  the  public  watched  him. 

He  clapped  a  hero  on  the  shoulder,  he  called  another 
"my  lad,"  he  mingled  humorous  chaff  with  the  seriousness 
of  his  praise,  and  the  little  crowd  applauded. 

"Famous,  my  lads!  Upon  my  word,  you  have  made 
us  all  proud  of  you." 

He  was  groping  in  a  waistcoat  pocket  now,  and  he 
brought  out  two  or  three  sovereigns,  and  distributed  them 
among  the  men;  and  once  more  the  crowd  applauded. 

This  substantial  recognition  was  moreover  received  in 
the  best  part  by  the  men. 

"Oh,  sir,"  said   their  spokesman,   "it  was   nothing,  sir; 

52 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

no  more  than  our  duty.  I'm  sure  none  of  us  thought  a 
minute  when  we  got  the  call.  The  luck  was  in  being 
able  to  get  to  her  in  time.  But  I'm  sure  it's  very  kind  of 
you,  sir.  Thank  you,  sir.  And  I'm  sure  we  all  appreciate 
your  liberality  and  kindness,  sir." 

Lenny  went  into  the  club  feeling  full  of  a  very  generous 
glow;  sympathy,  kindness,  and  enthusiasm,  warming  him 
through  and  through.  There  were  several  members  in  the 
front  room,  including  Colonel  Blacklock,  and  they  were 
all  still  talking  of  the  wreck.  Lenny,  chiming  in,  began 
to  relate  how  much  impressed  he  had  been  by  the  modesty 
of  these  rough  fellows. 

"They  did  it  last  night,  and  they'd  do  it  again  to-night, 
if  they  got  the  call."  And  he  hinted  at  the  donation  and 
good  words  with  which  he  had  rewarded  them.  "Yes,  I 
told  them  what  I  thought." 

Somehow  the  members  would  not  listen:  they  cut  him 
short.  They  were  talking,  but  it  was  not  of  the  lifeboat 
men  that  they  talked. 

"Oh,  yes — just  so.  But  it's  young  Dryden  who  has 
shown  himself  such  a  tip-topper.  I  didn't  think  he  had 
such  grit  in  him.  ...  By  Jove!  Say  what  you  will, 
it  was  a  clinking  fine  thing  to  do.  The  young  harum- 
scarum  devil  bangs  out  of  the  club  just  as  he  was,  in  his 
shirt  sleeves,  and  is  the  first  man  into  the  boat — he  and 
Jones,  the  butcher,  were  the  volunteers;  and  without  them 
the  boat  could  not  have  been  manned." 

Lenny  walked  into  the  card-room,  and  heard  the  card- 
players  talking  of  young  Dryden  between  the  rubbers. 
Then  he  went  into  the  billiard-room,  and  heard  the  billiard- 
players  talking  about  him  unceasingly.  Then  he  retired 
to  the  writing-room,  where,  conspicuously  displayed  on  the 
mantelpiece,  there  was  a  large  placard  with  a  word  in 
capital  letters — Silence ! 

53 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

But  soon  he  was  joined  by  Colonel  Blacklock,  who 
altogether    disregarded    the   placard. 

"Lenny,"  said  the  Colonel,  affectionately  holding  him 
by  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  "you  were  right  about  it — abso- 
lutely right.     You  are  always  right." 

"I  don't  quite  follow  you,"  said  Lenny  coldly.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  about  him — when  you  said  we  mustn't  pill 
him.  .  .  .  Upon  my  word,  I  can't  get  over  this  per- 
formance;" and  the  Colonel  chuckled  and  rolled  his  head. 
"Quite  the  military  instinct!  What  they  taught  us  when 
we  were  youngsters.  'March  straight  for  the  sound  of 
the  guns.  Go,  straight  as  a  dart,  to  the  danger  zone.' 
Well,  that's  what  the  young  dog  did,  didn't  he?  Dashed 
straight  for  it,  without  waiting  to  put  on  his  coat!  And 
he  was  in  the  thick  of  it,  fighting  hard,  while  you  and  I, 
old  boy,  were  comfortably  marching  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion." And  the  Colonel  chuckled  again.  "Makes  one 
feel  small,  eh?  Never  mind.  We  can't  all  go;  and  I  have 
grandchildren  to  look  after,  and  you  have  got  a  father." 

Lenny  did  not  attempt  to  analyse  his  feelings,  and 
probably  they  were  quite  unanalysable.  When  he  thought 
of  Dryden's  prompt  and  courageous  action,  he  felt  again 
that  generous  glow  of  sympathy  and  enthusiasm; — but 
this  time  it  was  for  the  deed,  and  not  for  the  man.  His 
heart  had  warmed  to  the  rough  sailors;  it  grew  cold  to 
the  young  engineer.  Why?  There  was  no  envy,  no 
malice;  really  no  base  thought  at  all.  He  admired  young 
Dryden,  he  admired  him  enormously.  He  felt  as  if  from 
now  onwards  his  admiration  would  be  always  increasing; 
and  yet — he  disliked  young  Dryden.  He  liked  him  yes- 
terday, he  disliked  him  to-day.  Very  curious,  and  quite 
unanalysable.      Only    one    explanation    suggested    itself — 

54 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

surely  an  explanation  to  be  rejected  as  absurd.  Is  it  per- 
haps a  mysterious  law  of  life  that  one  cannot  like  the 
man  who,  however  innocently  and  inadvertently,  gets  the 
better  of  one?  But  how  could  the  law,  if  it  existed,  apply 
here?  Well — young  Dryden  had  done  the  thing  that  he 
ought  to  have  done  himself 


VII 


AFTER  much  broken  weather  the  sun  was  shining 
again.  At  noon  the  day  became  so  bright  and  dry 
that  one  could  safely  sit  on  the  beach.  Lenny  had 
come  down  the  steps  from  the  parade  to  light  his  pipe 
behind  one  of  the  wooden  groins;  and  in  this  shelter, 
with  the  sunlight  bathing  him  and  the  breeze  faintly  sing- 
ing above  his  head  but  never  touching  him,  he  reclined 
almost  at  full  length,  puffing  the  fragrant  tobacco,  fingering 
the  clean  pebbles,  and  lazily  thinking. 

The  small  waves  rolled  so  fast  towards  him,  swept  up 
the  beach  with  such  vigorous  motion,  collapsed  and  dragged 
their  remnants  away  with  such  a  deceptive  aspect  of  in- 
dividuality, that  it  seemed  impossible  to  believe  that  each 
hurrying  crest  and  following  trough  did  not  indeed  move 
onward,  but  was  merely  an  uprising  and  down-falling  of 
water  in  which  every  atom  hovered  over  the  same  station- 
ary spot.  And  his  thoughts  were  like  the  waves,  seeming 
to  roll  right  away,  but  really  in  one  place  all  the  time. 

He  thought  of  exploits  by  which  people  gain  the  praise 
of  crowds.  This  war — what  possibilities  it  offered  for 
quick  fame,  easily  achieved  glory!  Had  he  gone  out  there, 
he  might  have  distinguished  himself  and  come  home  fa- 
mous. Mentioned  in  despatches, — D.S.O., — more  even?  A 
Victoria   Cross? 

Why  not?  Given  the  opportunity,  you  would  make  the 
effort  in  a  white-hot  fury  of  excitement.  It  would  be  like  a 
fast  thing  with  hounds.     And  one  particular  thirty  minutes 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

came  back  to  him  with  extraordinary  vividness.  It  had 
been  very  late  on  a  November  afternoon,  when  a  long 
blank  day  had  sent  most  of  the  field  home  in  low  spirits; 
there  was  a  touch  of  frost  towards  dusk;  one  could  smell 
the  fallen  leaves  beneath  the  trees;  and  suddenly  hounds 
were  running  like  blazes.  His  horse  seemed  to  go  mad 
with  joy.  Bang,  crack,  whack — that  timber  had  been  hit 
uncommonly  hard,  but  he  is  free  of  the  copse;  he  is  sailing 
over  firm  turf;  then  a  scramble  after  a  deep  drop — Lenny 
felt  again  the  nasty  checking  jar  and  the  infinitesimal 
pause, — but  those  hindlegs  are  under  him  again;  he  is 
flying  straight  in  the  wake  of  the  flying  pack.  Not  an- 
other moment's  doubt  or  trouble.  Thirty  minutes,  and 
the  splendid  end  had  come — a  kill  in  the  open  and  only 
one  man  up.  As  he  remembered  the  scene,  his  blood 
flowed  more  richly  through  his  veins.  .  .  .  Now  the 
other  men  are  here — red  perspiring  faces  all  round  him — 
frank  hearty  congratulations  uttered  by  friendly  voices. 
"By  Jove,  Lenny,  )rou  were  in  your  element.  You  fairly 
streaked  away,  old  chap.     We  only  saw  your  coat-tails." 

Well,  that  was  how  he  would  distinguish  himself  in 
war — rapidly — if  the  lucky  chance  came.  At  worst  it 
would  seem  nothing  greater  or  more  difficult  than  stopping 
a  pair  of  runaway  carriage  horses. 

Then  he  thought  of  the  bronze  cross  won  by  his  great 
friend  George  Verinder.  Nothing  easy  or  quick  about 
his  exploit! 

He  and  a  small  number  of  cavalry  had  been  surprised 
in  a  hollow  among  hills,  and  so  knocked  about  by  the 
well-posted  foe  that  a  sauve  qui  petit  seemed  likely  to  en- 
sue. But  George,  apparently,  had  rallied  them;  had  slowly 
and  methodically  extricated  them  from  this  devil's  hot- 
pot; got  them  clear  off,  and  then  had  ridden  back  alone 
— into  the  hot-pot  again — to  find  a  trooper  who  had  shouted 

57 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

imploringly  as  he  fell.  George  knew  that  the  troops  under 
his  command  were  safe  now;  he  was  risking  his  own  life, 
not  their  lives. 

Gone  for  thirty-six  hours!  Putting  the  wounded  man 
on  his  horse,  walking  beside  the  horse  amid  a  rain  of  bul- 
lets'— walking  through  a  night,  hiding  through  a  day;— 
discovered  and  attacked,  with  sputter  of  revolver  fire 
beating  off  a  dozen  riflemen,  and  again  getting  clear; 
Staggering  on  into  another  night,  without  food,  without 
drink,  without  warmth — in  imagination  Lenny  could  see 
it  all.  While  he  thought  of  those  thirty-six  hours,  it  was 
as  if  his  brain  contained  one  of  the  new  American  cinema- 
tograph theatres  about  which  people  were  beginning  to 
speak.  An  endless  thread  of  animated  pictures  spun  out 
before  his  introspective  eyes.  No,  not  endless;  for  here 
is  the  last  of  the  film,  the  final  picture. 

Camp  fires  burning  pale  at  dawn,  the  challenge  of  a 
sentry — George  has  reached  the  British  lines;  and  the 
dying  horse  still  carries  a  live  man.  Oh,  what  steel-bright 
courage,  what  indomitable  resolve,  what  infinite  capacity 
of  endurance,  went  to  the  doing  of  all  this! 

And  he  thought  of  the  long-standing  friendship  between 
George  and  himself.  It  would  be  a  terrible  misfortune 
to  forfeit  the  affection  and  esteem  of  such  a  knight-like 
friend   as  that. 

George  Verinder  was  not  in  any  way  connected  with 
Westchurch ;  he  belonged  to  Lenny's  earlier  history,  and 
was  known  to  Dryden  and  other  club  members  only  as 
the  brilliant  guest  who  once  came  to  stay  for  a  month  at 
No.  I,  The  Crescent.  He  and  Lenny  had  served  in  the 
same  militia;  it  was  then  that  the  regard  was  born  and 
grew  to  such  strength  as  to  survive  the  dulling  effects  of 
time,  separation,  and  changed  habits.  After  those  militia 
days  they  were  parted.      One  of   them  had  gone  with   a 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

sword  in  his  hand  to  conquer  the  world,  and  the  other 
had  slowly  paced  to  and  fro  on  a  concrete  path  by  the 
narrow  sea  and  carried  an  old  man's  walking  stick. 

Lenny's  pipe  had  gone  out;  in  his  recumbent  position 
it  would  not  draw  properly.  He  raised  himself,  sat  cross- 
legged,  and,  picking  up  a  handful  of  pebbles,  threw  them 
from  him  with  a  slow  reluctant  gesture  that  typified  the 
phase  of  his  thought. 

But  he  had  voluntarily  given  up  the  hope  of  going  to 
the  war;  and  he  must  not  regret  the  loss  of  a  dream. 

Then,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  he  thought  distinctly 
and  consecutively  of  all  he  had  sacrificed  to  filial  love. 

The  hunting  with  those  jolly  red-faced  companions; 
the  shooting,  the  fishing,  the  whole  programme  of  rural 
sport;  the  life  in  London  with  wild  bloods  and  costly 
sirens,  facile  courtships  and  swift  surrenders,  late  nights 
and  later  mornings,  life  illuminated  by  a  candle  that  is 
being  lavishly  burnt  at  both  ends;  then  the  period  of  wider 
aims  and  more  extended  hopes,  reputation,  public  im- 
portance, marriage,  home — all  that  he  had  been  taught  to 
expect  ultimately  as  quite  his  own,  all  of  it  had  gone  from 
him. 

And  as  exchange  the  long  dull  years  in  this  little  hole 
of  a  place — numbing  and  deadening  oneself  with  its  futile 
amusements,  insipid  vapours  of  old  maids  at  tea-parties, 
garrulous  twaddle  of  old  men  on  club  sofas.  To  think 
of  it — plainly  to  recognize  the  vapid  monotony,  the  measure- 
less emptiness  that  can  be  contained  in  infinitely  restricted 
space,  made  one  feel  the  sick  yearning  of  an  eagle  chained 
to  a  perch,  or  a  lion  barred  in  a  cage.  Again  the  mental 
pictures  began  to  flash  and  pass.  The  world  as  it  seems 
when  you  look  at  it  through  prison  bars,  and  the  world 
that  is  open  and  free — these  formed  the  new  series  of  his 
thought  films.  Travel,  exploration,  adventure,  the  renewal 
5  59 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

of  youth  that  comes  to  those  who  boldly  seek  and  drink  at 
Nature's  hidden  fountains,  that  wine  of  life  which  is  sweeter 
and  stronger  when  Danger  holds  the  cup  than  when  we 
take  it  from  the  hands  of  Fame — how  much,  how  very 
much  he  had  offered  in  willing  sacrifice  to  his  love ! 

Two  warmly-clad  children,  followed  by  a  nursery  gover- 
ness, passed  in  the  sunlight  at  the  water's  edge.  The  little 
boy  trailed  a  rope  of  sea-weed,  swished  it  on  the  running 
foam,  released  it  and  retrieved  it;  the  little  girl  laughed 
and  danced;  and  the  governess  told  them  both  to  be  careful 
not  to  get  their  boots  wet. 

Ah — the  paramount  sacrifice!  As  he  watched  the  chil- 
dren he  thought  of  the  greatest  thing  he  had  surrendered — 
little  hands  to  link  themselves  about  his  fingers,  treble 
voices  to  call  him  father,  small  faces  to  show  him  in  their 
upturned  glance  the  magic  mirror  that  contains  the  future 
and  the  past. 

That  immortality  of  fatherhood — why,  in  one  sense  at 
least,  he  had  given  not  only  his  life,  but  life  everlasting. 

Yet  he  did  not  grudge  it.  He  got  up,  stretched  him- 
self, and  climbed  the  steps  to  the  parade.  As  he  walked 
along  the  well-worn  track,  his  thoughts  began  to  flow 
smooth  in  their  customary  channel.  When  he  thought  of 
his  father,  the  sense  of  curbed  strength  and  balked  aim 
at  once  faded;  his  mind  was  suffused  with  softness  and 
gentleness;  and  it  was  as  if  from  a  thousand  invisible 
traces  of  the  Bath-chair  wheels  there  rose  as  many  guid- 
ing lines  to  hold  him  steadfast  in  purpose  and  direction. 

That  was  his  duty — a  duty  which  he  must  perform 
because  it  had  become  an  instinct, — to  guard  and  protect 
the  strong  man  whose  strength  had  turned  to  weakness. 
All  the  firmest  part  of  his  nature  was  irrevocably  bound 
to  the  self-imposed  task.     That  was  the  real   interest  of 

60 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

his  life;  and  if  he  were  shut  out  of  it,  there  could  now  be 
no  true  comfort  for  him.  The  mere  recollection  of  his 
father's  dependence  upon  him  always  seemed  automatically 
to  melt  his  heart,  to  fill  his  breast  with  a  warm  suffocating 
pain,  and — as  it  had  done  now — to  bring  tears  into  his 
blinking  eyes. 

And  the  bad  temper,  the  frequent  rudeness,  the  occa- 
sional harshness,  all  aided  in  the  maintenance  of  an  ab- 
sorbing dominion.  Such  manifestations  of  power  issuing 
from  absolute  impotence  completed  the  poignancy  of  the 
appeal  to  one's  magnanimous  forbearance. 

He  felt  altogether  at  peace  again.  Walking  on  more 
briskly,  nodding  to  acquaintances,  but  not  stopping  to  talk, 
he  remembered  how  easily  he  had  shaken  down  in  the 
narrow  orbit  described  by  fate,  and  considered  the  manifold 
compensations  of  his  lot.  The  friendly  jolly  little  town, 
the  surrounding  atmosphere  of  kindliness,  the  immunity 
from  personal  care  and  worry!  Truly  he  had  been  able 
to  make  himself  comfortable  enough.  At  first  the  allowance 
given  to  him  by  his  father  was  moderate,  almost  exiguous; 
but  the  allowance  had  been  increased  until  it  became  a  very 
ample  one;  of  late  it  might  be  counted  almost  as  a  fund 
without  other  limit  than  his  own  discretion.  And  it  was 
all  of  it  spending  money — everything  found  for  one  at 
home,  not  a  penny  deflected  to  household  charges.  So  that 
a  waistcoat  dive  always  brought  ready  gold  to  the  surface, 
and  one  could  be  large — if  in  a  small  way.  He  liked  to 
deal  open-handedly  with  little  claims,  to  tip  handsomely, 
to  head  testimonial  lists,  to  stand  thirsty  people  long  drinks. 

Then  he  thought  of  further  solaces:  those  visits  to  Lon- 
don at  fairly  regular  intervals;  two  or  three  nights  at  a 
time  spent  far  away  from  the  stuffiness  of  sick-rooms,  the 
smell  of  medicaments,  the  society  of  hospital  nurses — 
solaces  unspeakably  greater  than  he  had  ever  merited. 

61 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

Then,  all  at  once;  with  a  further  flash  of  memory,  he 
thought  of  the  luncheon-table  that  was  now  probably  be- 
ing laid  by  skilful  hands  in  the  cosy  dining-room  at  No.  I. 
He  looked  at  his  watch — a  present  from  his  father,  mono- 
gram on  one  side,  crest  on  the  other.  Yes,  nearly  lunch- 
time! 

What  the  watch  said  merely  confirmed  the  information 
of  the  clock — a  gift  of  Nature — that  he  carried  inside 
him.  He  felt  quite  hungry — really  sharp-set.  And  had 
there  not  been  some  talk  yesterday  about  a  particular  dish 
that  Parsons  was  to  attempt  as  an  experiment? 

He  walked  home  cheerfully  and  jauntily. 

No,  he  must  never  forget  the  sacrifices.  Ungenerous 
to  do  so.  Fulfil  one's  proximate  and  pressing  duty — what 
else  matters? 

Besides,  in  truth,  nothing  to  complain  of! 


VIII 


THAT  feeling  of  the  sacrifice  justified,  the  duty 
obeyed,  the  task  fulfilled,  was  strong  upon  him  dur- 
ing the  next  few  days.  With  it  had  come  a  pacifica- 
tion of  the  nerves,  a  more  evenly  balanced  rhythm  of  the 
pulses,  and  perhaps  unconsciously  he  nourished  and  en- 
couraged its  growth  in  order  to  continue  and  increase  the 
benefit  he  was  deriving  from  it.  Certainly  it  filled  his 
whole  mental  field  when  he  began  to  speak  sentimentally 
of  the  past  to  his  father. 

A  cold  wet  morning,  the  invalid  out  of  bed  and  dressed, 
but  unlikely  to  venture  downstairs — Lenny  came  into  the 
bedroom,  took  the  bowl  of  arrowroot  from  nurse,  and 
himself  waited  upon  her  irritable  patient.  This  wretched 
meal  might  very  likely  prove  to  be  Mr.  Calcraft's  break- 
fast, luncheon,  and  dinner;  for  he  was  suffering  horribly 
from  the  defective  processes  of  his  digestion. 

Lenny  did  not  consider  whether  the  moment  was  oppor- 
tune, but,  assuming  that  he  would  be  sure  of  a  sympa- 
thetic response,  allowed  his  thoughts  to  brim  over  into 
verbal  utterance. 

"Father" — and  really  he  was  like  a  man  who  thought 
aloud, — "I  have  been  brooding  upon  all  these  years  that 
we  have  spent  together,  and  I  felt  that  I  regret  nothing." 

"What  should  you  regret?" 

Old  Calcraft  was  nursing  the  bowl  on  his  lap,  blowing 
at  the  hot  gruel,  and  occasionally  taking  a  cautious  spoon- 

63 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

ful.  Now  he  put  the  bowl  on  the  little  table  at  his  side, 
and   stared   at   Lenny. 

"I  only  mean,  the  thought  comes  that  I  might  possibly 
have  been  better  employed."  As  he  said  it  his  eyes  grew 
moist,  and  he  took  his  father's  hand  and  pressed  it.  "But 
I  know,  I  feel  that  I  couldn't  have  been  better  employed 
than  in  looking  after  you." 

His  father  grunted.  Then  he  grasped  the  bowl  again, 
and  went  on  sipping. 

Lenny  went  on  talking,  sentimentally,  affectionately,  de- 
votedly. 

"Rubbish!"  cried  old  Calcraft,  with  a  splutter  and 
cough.  "Do  you  want  to  make  me  choke  by  ramming 
such  chatter  down  my  throat?  Can't  you  see  that  I'm 
trying  to  fwallow  this  trash  that  I  hold  in  my  hands — 
this  nauseating  muck — this  abominable  filth — to  which  I 
am  condemned  by  my  infirmities,  and  cursed  bad  luck,  and 
the  damnable  cruelty  of  fate?" 

Then  of  course  Lenny  knew  that  he  had  chosen  a  mo- 
ment unfavourable  to  a  sentimental  subject. 

But  the  subject  did  not  rest  there.  Mr.  Calcraft  returned 
to  it  later  in  the  day — at  dusk. 

"Well,  dad,"  said  Lenny  breezily,  "I  hope  you  have 
picked  up  a  little  appetite  for  tea." 

The  old  man  sat  deep-sunken  in  his  chair  by  the  bed- 
room fire;  his  hands  on  the  arms  of  the  chair  were  shaking; 
his  shrunken  face  was  like  a  parchment  mask  with  dusky 
shadows  on  it,  and  out  of  the  deepest  shadow  his  eyes 
glittered  wrathfully. 

For  a  month  he  had  been  the  prey  of  irrepressible  fits 
of  anger.  The  ruin  of  the  digestive  organs  created,  ac- 
cording to  Dr.  Searle,  a  fearful  state  of  affairs.  The  food 
that  would  not  consent  to  be  assimilated,  set  up  a  chemical 

64 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

laboratory  for  the  production  of  poison,  which  went  stream- 
ing through  the  impoverished  blood  and  sent  black  waves 
of  poisoned  fury  to  the  higher  centres  of  the  brain.  That 
was  the  physiological  explanation  of  tantrums  that  had 
nearly  broken  the  nurse's  heart. 

As  Lenny  was  aware,  the  nurse  had  been  severely  -tried. 
The  patient  forbade  her  to  wear  the  hospital  dress;  and 
when  rules  and  regulations  were  quoted  and  there  was  a 
question  of  writing  to  ask  Sister's  permission,  he  said  dis- 
respectful things  of  Sister.  "I'm  not  going  to  have  that 
apron  and  Tom-fool  cap  bobbing  round  me  to  please 
Sister.  I'd  as  soon  have  a  mourning  mute  messing  about 
the  room,  or  an  undertaker  following  my  chair.  Either 
you'll  dress  yourself  like  an  ordinary  young  woman,  or 
you'll  pack  and  go  home  to  Sister  by  the  next  train.  .  .  . 
Which  is  it  to  be?  .  .  .  Very  well,  here's  a  sovereign. 
Go  out  and  buy  yourself  a  bonnet." 

Then,  when  the  poor  soul  appeared  in  the  bonnet,  it 
was — "Lord  save  us!  Why,  the  idiot  has  converted  herself 
into  a  Salvation  Army  girl.  Where's  your  tambourine? 
Where's  your  tambourine?" 

It  made  Nurse  Ferguson  cry.  She  sobbed  as  she  told 
Lenny  about  it. 

"He  said  a  bonnet — or  I  shouldn't  have  bought  a  bon- 
net.    I've  never  worn  a  bonnet  in  my  life." 

"I  know,"  said  Lenny  soothingly.  "But,  don't  you  see, 
father  used  the  old-fashioned  word.  Father  doesn't  under- 
stand the  difference  between  bonnets,  and  hats,  and  toques, 
and  all  that.  But  you  mustn't  let  it  distress  you.  Bear 
with  him — he's  very  fond  of  you  really." 

By  some  such  tactful  words  Lenny  consoled  the  weeping 
nurse  after  she  had  suffered  so  much  rudeness.  Now  it 
was  Lenny's  turn  to  suffer. 

"Never  mind  my  tea,  Lenny,"  said  Mr.  Calcraft,  "no, 

65 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

nor  my  appetite  either.  But  attend  to  what  I  say.  I 
propose  to  have  a  few  serious  words  with  you." 

"I  am  all  attention." 

"Thank  you.  Then  will  you  be  good  enough  to  explain 
precisely  what  you  meant  by  your  remarks  this  morning." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Lenny,  smiling  deprecatingly,  "my 
meaning — if  I  had  one — was  surely  obvious;  but  perhaps 
I  had  better  have  kept  it  to  myself." 

"Please  explain  the  obviousness.  I  am  old,  and  slow 
of  wit." 

"Father,  why  are  you  making  yourself  angry?  I  spoke 
in  all  affection — and  my  wish  was  simply  to  reassure  you." 

"Ah!  Well,  I  cannot  allow  this  tone  of  patronage — 
which  I've  noticed  once  or  twice  before  to-day.  You  and 
I,  Master  Lenny,  must  understand  each  other.  I'm  not 
dead  yet.     I'm  still  the  master  in  my  own  house." 

"Have  I  ever  disputed  your  authority?" 

"Possibly  not — but  I  require  respectful  usage  as  well 
as  tacit  obedience.  I'm  not  going  to  be  treated  as  a 
mummy  or  a  dummy — a  something  broken  and  done  for, 
and  laid  upon  a  shelf, — to  which  the  common  courtesies 
of  life  are  only  granted  out  of  compassion." 

"Father!" 

"Yes,  and  please  to  remember  I'm  something  more  than 
your  father.  I'm  your  host  too.  And  you're  a  guest — 
not  even  a  paying  guest,  but  a  person  maintained  in  idle- 
ness because  it  happens  to  be  my  pleasure  not  to  live  alto- 
gether alone." 

The  blood  had  rushed  to  Lenny's  face;  now  he  became 
very  pale,  and  very  grave. 

"Father,  these  are  not  words  that  I  ever  expected  to 
hear  from  your  lips." 

"Oh,  you'll  hear  more  words  from  my  lips,  and,  whether 
you  like  them  or  not,  they'll  do  you  good.     You've  been 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

getting  above  yourself  of  late.  You  want  taking  down  a 
peg  or  two." 

"Father,  you  are  carried  away  by  anger; — you  are  mak- 
ing yourself  ill; — and  I  must  not  answer  you.  Please 
don't  say  any  more." 

"Oh,  but  I  will  though." 

"Don't  drive  me  to  answer  you — to  say  things  I  should 
regret.  Father,"  said  Lenny  beseechingly,  "if  you  and  I 
were  to  quarrel,  it  would  be  the  end  of  the  world  to  me." 

"I  dare  say  it  would.  But  you  won't  quarrel  with  me. 
No,"  and  Mr.  Calcraft  laughed  scornfully,  and  began  to 
cough.  "No — you  know  on  which  side  your  bread  is  but- 
tered." 

"And  that  sneer  is  your  thanks — my  recompense  after 
all  these  years?" 

"Rubbish — stuff "    Mr.    Calcraft    was    temporarily 

checked  by  the  cough. 

"I  was  vain  enough  to  believe  that  you  relied  on  me — 
needed  me." 

"And  so  I  did.  So  I  do.  I  frankly  admit  that  if  left 
to  myself  in  this  large  house — this  comparatively  large 
house, — if  quite  by  myself,  with  only  servants,  I  should  be 
lonely — very  lonely.  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  your  com- 
pany— the  little  of  it  that  you  grant  me;  but  what  I  won't 
stand,  what  I  shall  never  stand,  is  the  assumption  that 
you  are  doing  everything  for  me  and  that  I  am  doing  noth- 
ing for  you." 

Lenny  turned,  and  moved  a  few  steps  towards  the  door. 

"Stop.  Don't  turn  tail.  Now  we've  begun,  let's  have 
it  out  like  men." 

"Father,  you're  not  yourself,  or  you  wouldn't,  you 
couldn't  say  these  things  to  me."  Lenny  had  turned  again, 
and  his  words  bubbled  out  vehemently  and  rapidly.  "How 
can  you  and  I  weigh  the  facts  of  our  dual  existence  as  if 

67 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

they  were  matters  of  common  business — like  tradesmen 
making  up  an  account  in  a  ledger,  till  they  can  strike  a 
balance  and  estimate  the  amount  of  credit  and  debit? 
If  I  said  how  you've  wounded — cut  me — I  should  go  on 
to  tell  you  the  truth." 

"Fire  ahead.     I'm  never  afraid  of  the  truth." 

"Then  strike  the  balance  by  yourself,  at  leisure — think 
quietly  of  what  you've  had  from  me  and  what  I've  had 
from  you,  and  see  where  the  debt  lies  and  how  much  it  is. 
I'll  not  ask  you  to  pay  it.  For  you  couldn't  pay  it — no, 
not  if  you  lived  for  a  hundred  years." 

"You  have  had  the  run  of  your  teeth,  clothes  to  wear, 
money  to  jingle  in  your  pockets — what  more  could  you 
have  got  elsewhere?" 

"It  isn't  what  I  might  have  got  elsewhere,  it  is  what  I 
have  given  up  here." 

"What  have  you  given  up?     Name  any  single   thing." 

"Well — the  war  for  one  thing.  You  didn't  want  me 
to  go." 

"You  didn't  want  to  go  either." 

"Father!" 

"Of  course  you  didn't.  When  you  came  humming  and 
hawing  about  it,  I  twigged  in  a  minute."  Mr.  Calcraft 
coughed  almost  to  asphyxiation.  "I — admit — didn't — 
want  to  lose  you;  but  would  not — selfishly — oppose  a  real 
desire " 

"You  have  said  more  than  enough,  sir.  I'll  listen  to 
no  more." 

"Yes,  sir.  .  .  .  We're  'sir'  now.  Very  good.  So  be 
it,  sir." 

Lenny's  hand  was  on  the  door  handle.  He  looked 
round  at  his  father,  who  was  leaning  forward  in  the  arm- 
chair, with  the  firelight  on  his  face. 

The  face  was  distorted  by  passion.     The  blackest  wave 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

of  the  poisonous  stream  flooded  the  nearly  worn-out  but 
still  active  brain.  Forehead  veins  swelled  ominously,  sunken 
eyes  glittered  balefully,  knotted  hands  twitched  spasmodic- 
ally; but  old  Calcraft  went  on  talking,  only  hesitating  in 
order  to  choose  words  with  the  keenest  cutting  edge  and 
the  sharpest  and  most  direful  point. 

"Didn't  want  to  go,  sir.  And  now,  if  you  please,  try 
to  shift  the  onus — or  blame — or  disgrace — on  me.  .  .  . 
Want  to  bully  and  blackguard  me,  when  I  call  you  to 
order!  .  .  .  Sir,  you  are  like  some  doctored  Tom-cat 
who  hasn't  the  pluck  to  go  and  risk  its  fur  by  fighting  at 
night,  but  because  it  is  given  a  soft  bed  to  lie  on  and  spiced 
food  to  put  in  its  belly,  gets  impudent — yes,  takes  it  all 
as  a  right,  and  has  the  damned  impudence  to  spit  at  its 
master,  and  scratch  and  claw  the  hand  that  feeds  it." 

Lenny  had  opened  the  door.  He  stood  on  the  threshold, 
seeming  very  big  and  erect  as  he  looked  at  his  father  and 
spoke  to  him  in  a  low  husky  voice. 

"I  think  you  must  yourself  feel  now  that  you  have 
said  all  you  wished  to  say  to  me.  You  told  me  they  were 
to  be  serious  words — and  I  accept  them  seriously." 

"Lenny,"  cried  his  father,  "come  back."  Suddenly  the 
unreasoning  fury  had  waned,  and  in  an  instant  it  died  out 
altogether.  "Lenny,"  and  the  familiar  name  was  uttered 
now  with  a  tone  of  piteous  entreaty,  "Lenny,  don't  go. 
I  didn't  mean  it — I  didn't  mean  one  word  of  it." 

But  the  door  closed,  and  old  Calcraft  stretched  his  hand 
towards  it  with  a  frightened  gesture. 


IX 


TRULY  it  seemed  like  the  end  of  the  world  to  Lenny. 
Something  incredible,  terrific,  overwhelming  had  oc- 
curred; all  static  laws  had  ceased  to  act;  each  of 
Nature's  forces  had  broken  loose  from  the  compensating 
control  of  her  other  forces,  and  the  disruption  of  the  uni- 
verse was  the  immediate  consequence. 

He  walked  fast  along  the  parade,  through  the  gathering 
darkness,  through  the  boiling  turmoil  of  his  thoughts. 

His  mouth  was  hot  and  dry;  his  eyes  were  smarting; 
there  was  a  hard  lump  in  his  throat.  He  squared  his 
shoulders,  arched  his  chest,  moved  his  legs  with  a  firm 
strong  swing;  but  inwardly  he  felt  empty  and  lacerated, 
as  if  nearly  all  that  was  soft  and  tender  had  been  scooped 
out  of  its  case  of  skin  and  bones,  and  the  torn  remainder 
was  draining  his  last  drops  of  blood.  This  sensation 
occupied  the  whole  trunk  area  below  the  throat;  but 
above  it,  right  through  the  head  to  the  tightened  scalp, 
there  burned  a  fire  which  every  now  and  then  blazed 
into  fierce  explosions.  This  upper  phenomenon  was  the 
burning  sense  of  injustice,  with  periodic  luminous  recog- 
nitions of  its  vastness  and  intensity. 

"My  reward,  yes" — He  was  muttering  the  words  aloud — 
"It  has  come  to  this  then.  So  this  is  what  I  am  asked  to 
submit  to  finally." 

When  a  man  has  been  bitten  by  a  mad  dog,  he  cannot 
for  a  little  while  recover  his  composure  and  take  a  calm 
view  of  the  incident  from   the  dog's  point  of  view.     Be 

70 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

he  the  most  philosophic  and  kind-hearted  man  alive,  he 
will  not  immediately  begin  saying,  "Don't  blame  the  poor 
creature.  It  knows  no  better.  It  meant  no  harm."  So, 
analagously,  Lenny  could  at  first  make  no  excuses  for  the 
sick,  the  practically  dying  man  who  had  taunted  and  in- 
sulted him.  At  first  the  uttermost  effort  that  he  could 
achieve  in  the  direction  of  equanimity  was  by  opposing 
a  sort  of  angry  contempt  to  the  memory  of  his  wrongs. 

What  does  anything  matter  ?  If  we  ourselves  are  big 
enough,  all  that  strikes  us  must  seem  small.  Gratitude 
is  the  payment  demanded  by  weak  fools.  The  strong  and 
the  wise  comprehend  that  their  intrinsic  value  is  not  en- 
hanced by  praise  or  decreased  by  censure.  One  ought  not 
to  mind  ingratitude.  If  you  do  your  duty,  that  should  be 
its  own  reward. 

He  walked  faster,  as  if  flying  from  the  spot  where  he 
had  undergone  his  pain.  Instinctively  he  had  turned  his 
back  to  the  sunset  and  was  hurrying  eastwards.  Out  of 
the  east  the  blackness  of  night  was  slowly  emerging;  and 
the  dark  gloom,  as  it  spread  and  came  towards  him,  har- 
monized exactly  with  the  obscure  background  of  his  expand- 
ing thought. 

He  stared  at  the  sea;  but  already  the  darkness  had 
swallowed  it,  and  only  the  sound  of  breaking  waves  told 
one  that  it  was  still  there.  He  stared  at  the  golf  links 
— they  too  had  disappeared;  not  one  familiar  contour  visi- 
ble. But  staring  to  that  side  he  had  a  strange  conception 
of  trackless  space,  and  insurmountable  difficulties.  A  chill- 
ing wind  crept  across  the  sandy  waste,  whispered  in  the 
bent  grass,  and  sighed  as  it  passed  away.  It  was  as  if 
one  were  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  mighty  desert,  in  the 
darkness  of  which  lay  mysterious  depths  tenanted  only  by 
savage  beasts  of  prey — and  for  a  moment  a  fanciful  idea 
presented  itself.    The  golf  links  symbolized  the  unexplored 

71 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

wilderness  which  he  must  now  boldly  enter,  and  across 
which  he  must  fight  his  way.  Good-bye,  safe  snug  little 
Westchurch !  The  hour  had  come  for  him  to  go  forth  into 
the  wide  world. 

Yes,  he  could  not  continue  the  task  of  self-immolation, 
now  that  everything  which  justified  the  sacrifice  had  been 
destroyed.  To  recover  his  self-respect,  he  must  grasp  at 
this  chance  of  freedom.  He  must  go — and  wrestle  with 
destiny  single-handed.  Somebody  else  must  pick  up  the 
burden  that  he  was  laying  down.  One  of  his  sisters — 
either  of  them — it  did  not  matter  which — must  come  and 
take  care  of  her  father.  A  companion  was  required,  but 
any  companion  would  do.  The  old  man  had  said  so  himself 
— by  implication,  if  not  by  explicit  statement.  Love  counted 
for  nothing.     "Very  good — be  it  so,  sir." 

He  turned  abruptly,  and  gazed  at  the  west.  Against 
the  last  angry  red  glow  of  the  sky,  the  church  tower 
loomed  black  and  grim;  one  could  make  out  the  lines  and 
curves  of  huddled  roofs;  to  the  understanding  eye  the  shape 
of  the  sea-front,  the  ridge  of  the  hill,  the  whole  plan  of 
the  little  town  made  itself  perceptible.  Many,  many  times 
he  had  seen  it  at  such  an  hour  as  this,  and  yet  now  it 
seemed  new  and  strange.  It  was  the  sense  of  impending 
farewell  that  had  changed  the  aspect  of  familiar  things,  and 
given  a  symbolic  significance  to  the  smallest  and  the  greatest 
of  them. 

He  looked  at  the  increasing  luminance  of  distant  lamps 
on  the  parade,  and  thought  of  our  feeble  hopes — so  soon 
kindled  and  so  soon  extinguished.  He  looked  at  the  faint 
clustered  lights  of  the  fishermen's  boats  in  the  estuary,  and 
figured  them  as  stars  fallen  from  their  high  position,  glim- 
mering in  the  measureless  void  before  their  final  coldness 
and  death. 

Out  of  that  last  fancy  came  sadness. 

n 


IN   COTTON   WOOL, 

Such  violent  emotion  as  he  had  been  sustaining  could 
not  last  long.  The  explosions  of  revolted  self-esteem  had 
already  ceased.  The  fire  sunk,  and  where  it  had  burned 
there  was   coldness,   blankness,   sadness. 

He  walked  back  with  slow  short  paces  from  the  darkness 
by  the  golf  links  towards  the  lamplight  on  the  parade,  and 
at  each  step  nearer  the  house  that  had  been  his  home  he 
was  thinking  more  calmly  and  more  logically. 

It  is  bitter,  most  bitter  to  be  misunderstood,  to  have 
one's  highest  and  finest  intentions  distorted  into  the  shape 
of  base  motives.  He  could  hear  again  his  father's  rasping 
voice  as  it  barked  out  the  scornful,  cynical,  cruel  accu- 
sations. "Oh  no,  you  won't  quarrel  with  me.  .  .  . 
You  know  on  which  side  your  bread  is  buttered." 

And  about  the  war!  The  injustice,  the  cruel  cruel 
injustice  of  saying  that  he  did  not  himself  want  to 
go. 

Then,  like  an  uninvited  guest,  like  a  common  outsider 
grossly  and  peremptorily  thrusting  his  way  into  a  party  of 
great  and  august  people,  a  memory  came  into  the  active 
zone  of  his  mind.  He  remembered  the  gayness,  the  light- 
ness, the  unquestioning  happiness  with  which  he  had  sprung 
from  his  soft  bed  on  the  morning  after  he  had  irrevocably 
decided  to  stay  at  home.  Why  had  he  felt  that  unusual 
elation  of  spirits?  Could  it  possibly  be  that  after  all  he 
was  happy  because ? 

No,  that  thought  was  unthinkable. 

He  had  returned  to  the  lamplight  now,  and  his  shadow 
moved  slowly  by  his  side,  swept  away  from  him,  and 
stretched  far  in  front  of  him,  till  the  next  lamp  sent  it 
dancing  over  his  bowed  head  to  drop  behind  him  again. 
And  the  lamplight  took  up  its  own  special  function  in  the 
symbolical  turn  of  new  thoughts.  It  typified  warmth  after 
€old,  solace  after  pain. 

73 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

There  was  only  one  person  in  all  the  world  who  ever 
really  understood  him.  She  never  misinterpreted  motives. 
To  her,  distance  and  proximity,  yesterday  and  to-day,  were 
all  one;  her  regard  annihilated  space,  her  faith  was  unend- 
ing as  time  itself. 

He  stopped  close  to  a  lamp-post  and  brought  out  from 
its  hiding  place  the  last  letter  that  he  had  received  from 
her.  Gold  clasps  on  the  pocket-book  flashed  in  the  light, 
but  he  had  to  raise  the  unfolded  notepaper  to  the  level  of 
his  eyes  before  he  could  read  the  half-remembered  sen- 
tences. 

"Dearest,  I  go  to  and  fro  in  the  midst  of  five  million 
people,  and  they  are  all  ghosts,  shadows,  in  an  unreal  city, 
because  one  man,  my  man,  is  not  here."  .  .  .  And  so 
on,  very  sweet,  showing  intense  love ;  soothing  him,  warming 
him,  re-filling  his  veins  with  blood.  .  .  .  "Take  care 
of  your  health,  my  own  darling.  Though  such  a  splendid 
fellow  outwardly,  you  are  not  truly  strong." — There!  The 
only  person  in  all  the  world  who  by  instinct  had  detected 
the  truth!  "You  cannot  take  too  much  care  of  yourself — 
for  my  poor  sake,  if  for  no  other  reason."     .     .     . 

And,  as  he  read,  he  was  seized  with  an  immense  long- 
ing to  be  again  with  the  writer  of  the  letter — to  be  soothed 
by  the  caress  of  her  slender  fingers,  to  be  fired  by  the  con- 
tact of  her  pressed  lips,  to  be  set  vibrating,  thrilling,  ec- 
statically throbbing  by  the  murmured  music  of  her  sweet 
low  voice. 

Before  Mr.  Calcraft  would  permit  his  nurse  to  undress 
him  and  put  him  to  bed,  he  ordered  her  to  ring  the  bell  for 
the  parlourmaid. 

"Oh — Mary — is   Mr.   Leonard   in   the  house?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Did  he  dine  at  home?" 

74 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"No,  sir.  He  came  in — rather  late — to  change  his 
clothes,  and  he  told  us  to  clear  the  table." 

"Oh!     Do  you  know  where  he  is?" 

"I  think  he  is  at  the  club.  Did  you  wish  him  sent  for, 
sir?" 

"No.  .  .  .  That's  all,  Mary.  .  .  .  Now,  Miss 
Ferguson,  help  me  to  bed." 

He  was  awake  when  the  latchkey  turned  in  the  lock,  and 
presently  he  heard  ascending  footsteps.  They  passed  his 
door,  and  went  upwards  without  stopping. 

He  lay  listening,  and  waiting;  but  the  footsteps  never 
descended  again.  That  night  Lenny  did  not  look  into  the 
sleepless  room. 

They  did  not  meet  until  the  luncheon  hour  next  day, 
Mr.  Calcraft  had  come  downstairs  for  the  mid-day  meal, 
and  was  seated  at  the  head  of  the  dining-table  when  Lenny 
came  into  the  room. 

"Good-morning,   father." 

"Good-morning,   Lenny." 

Lenny  seemed  unwonted  pale,  and  his  father  quite  ab- 
normally red.  They  both  spoke  stiffly,  with  the  forced 
politeness  of  two  strangers  who  did  not  like  the  first  look  of 
each  other. 

"I  saw  Lady  Garbett  just  now,  and  she  particularly 
asked  to  be  remembered  to  you." 

"Did  she?    That  was  very  kind  of  her." 

The  two  maids  were  busy  with  hot  dishes  to  be  handed, 
as  well  as  cold  dishes  to  be  placed  on  the  table,  and  they 
remained  in  the  room  for  some  time. 

Old  Calcraft,  raising  his  eyes  from  untasted  food,  shot 
a  wondering  but  gratified  glance  at  his  son.  Lenny  was 
eating  heartily;  except  for  the  slight  pallor,  he  appeared 
6  75 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

to  be  much  as  usual;  and,  the  constraint  wearing  off,  he 
consented  to  make  conversation  by  talking  of  indifferent 
matters.    Then  it  could  not  be  so  very  bad,  after  all. 

But  as  soon  as  the  servants  had  left  them  to  themselves, 
Lenny  resumed  his  stiffly  formal  air,  and  announced  that 
he  was  going  to  London  this  afternoon  for  the  purpose  of 
transacting  business.  Presuming  that  his  father  could  spare 
him,  he  intended  to  stay  in  London  for  four  or  five  days 
at  least. 

"Yes — of  course.  I — I  have  never  wished  to  tie  you 
by  the  heels.  Certainly,  go.  But,  Lenny,"  and  the  old 
man  looked  at  him  appealingly,  "this  isn't  sulkiness?  You 
are  not  deserting  me  because — because  I  gave  you  the  rough 
side  of  my  tongue  yesterday?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  am  called  away  by  certain  business  arrange- 
ments that  I  have  had  at  the  back  of  my  mind  for  a 
long  time — and,  in  fact,  they  cannot  be  any  longer  de- 
layed." 

"Very  good.  .  .  .  But  to-day  is  Saturday — and  Sat- 
urday does  not  seem  the  most  suitable  day  for  business. 
By  the  time  you  get  to  London  all  the  offices  and  shops  will 
be  closed.  Wouldn't  it  be  as  well  to  wait  till  Monday — 
to  start  the  business?" 

"No,  I  fear  I  can't  put  off  my  journey.  As  it  happens, 
Saturday  suits  some  of  my  purposes  admirably." 

"And  do  I  understand  that,  at  the  end  of  these  five 
or  six  days,   you  intend — you  promise   to  return?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Lenny,  slowly  and  enigmatically, 
"whether  I  have  arranged  everything  or  not,  I  will  come 
back  then.  I  mean,  even  if  my  arrangements  are  not 
finally  completed,  I  shall  return  then." 

Mr.  Calcraft  pushed  away  his  plate,  and  stared  at  the 
table-cloth.  There  was  a  silence,  during  which  it  seemed 
that  he  summoned  all  his  pride  and  braced  himself  for  an 

7G 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

extreme  effort.     Lenny  would  not  break  the  silence;  and 
at  last  Mr.  Calcraft  raised  his  head,  and  spoke  again. 

"Bon  voyage,  Lenny.  .  .  .  May  I  ask  you  to  have 
the  kindness  to  touch  the  bell?  I  want  Miss  Ferguson — to 
take  me  upstairs." 


WITH  a  first-class  compartment  to  himself,  a  foot- 
warmer  to  prevent  his  feet  feeling  chill,  and  mag- 
azines to  keep  his  mind  occupied,  Lenny  had  got 
through  three-quarters  of  the  journey  swiftly  and  easily. 
But  now,  as  the  train  slackened  speed  and  approached  its 
last  stopping-place  twenty  miles  from  London,  he  was  de- 
voured by  a  fever  of  excitement  and  anxiety. 

He  moved  from  side  to  side  of  the  carriage,  rubbed  the 
misty  window-glasses  with  the  cuff  of  his  fur  coat,  and 
peered  at  shapeless  objects  as  they  flitted  past  in  the  almost 
opaque  obscurity.  Bridges,  high  brick  walls,  signal  lamps — 
yes,  these  were  the  outskirts  of  the  junction.  Excitedly  he 
let  down  a  window,  and  allowed  the  cold  night  air  to  blow 
fiercely  against  his  heated  face,  while  he  gazed  ahead  at 
the  illuminated  focus  of  a  dim  perspective  that  seemed  to 
be  rushing  with  the  wind  towards  him. 

A  wide  opening  fan  of  metals,  more  bridges,  huge  signal- 
cabins,  dozens  of  red  and  green  lamps — a  vast  confused 
space  of  light  and  darkness,  in  which  his  eager  eyes  were 
seeking  as  yet  vainly;  then  the  long,  the  interminably  long 
platform — gas-light  reflected  in  wet  asphalt,  flaring  before 
book-stalls,  casting  monstrous  shadows  of  piled  luggage  and 
rolled  milk-cans,  porters  shouting,  inspectors  scribbling  in 
note-books,  half  a  dozen  humble  passengers  trotting  after 
the  third-class  coaches  as  they  slowly  glided  by;  but  still 
no  sign — no  slightest  sign  of  her. 

His  heart  sank;  he   felt  sick  with   disappointment;   his 

78 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

forehead  in  a  moment  had  become  clammily  frigid.  She 
had  not  been  able  to  come  out  here  to  meet  him.  His  letter 
had  not  reached  her  early  enough — he  knew  that  she  would 
have  come  if  she  could.  But  some  diabolical  engagement 
had  prevented  her:  he  would  find  her  note  of  explanation 
waiting  for  him  at  his  rooms  in  Albert  Street.  Perhaps 
she  might  not  be  able  to  meet  him  till  to-morrow,  or  even 
till  Monday.     ...     Ah! 

Suddenly  he  saw  her — a  tall  figure  in  a  dark  cloak.  The 
guard,  obeying  instructions,  earning  the  promised  tip,  had 
found  her,  was  hurrying  her  along  the  platform  to  the  car- 
riage door. 

"So  you  came — you  came.  I — I  began  to  be  afraid." 
Lenny  was  breathing  so  fast  that  he  could  scarcely  speak. 
"How  long  did  you  have  to  wait?" 

"Nearly  an  hour." 

"Poor  darling.     Did  it  seem  long?" 

"An  eternity.  But  I  didn't  mind — heaven  was  to  be 
mine  at  the  end  of  it." 

The  train  was  moving  again;  in  clusters,  in  bunches,  and 
then  one  by  one,  it  dropped  the  station  lamps  behind  it; 
soon  it  had  run  out  into  the  kindly  darkness.  It  glided 
faster,  gaining  speed,  flinging  away  all  lamps  that  it  passed 
now  as  though  they  were  sparks  from  the  furnace;  and 
the  compartment  was  a  brilliantly  lit,  neatly  upholstered 
boudoir — a  small  magic  room  that  flew  through  the  night 
and  defied  the  prying  scrutiny  of  all  external  eyes,  to  which 
it  had  become  merely  one  link  on  a  long  serpent  of  fire. 

"Lenny,  my  king.     Are  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

"Yes,  yes.  Take  off  your  veil.  Let  me  feel  your  dear 
face  against  mine." 

His  joy  made  him  husky;  his  haste  made  him  grudge 
wasted  words.     He  had  flung  open  his  fur-coat,  had  pulled 

79 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

her  on  his  knees,  and  was  folding  her  in  a  rapturous  em- 
brace. 

This  was  what  he  had  been  yearning  for.  The  sensation 
of  holding  her  tight  against  him  instantly  created  a  massive 
and  diffused  contentment;  and  the  deep  peace  of  it  was 
shot  through  and  through  in  all  directions  with  fiery  darts 
of  bliss.  At  last  they  two  were  together,  and  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  ceased  to  exist.  Immense  mental  relief 
mingled  with  the  physical  rapture — she  was  still  his,  what- 
ever else  he  had  lost. 

The  strength  and  fragility  of  her  supple  body,  the  soft 
glow  of  her  eyes  so  close  to  his  own,  the  feel  of  her  face, 
firm  and  cool  at  first  till  it  quivered  and  warmed  beneath 
his  caresses,  the  well-remembered  fragrance  of  her  hair, 
the  sweet  voice  whispering  love  each  time  that  he  released 
her  lips — all  these  things  combining  and  fusing  sent  a  mani- 
fold message  of  delight  to  thrill  voluptuously,  to  beat  tu- 
multously, to  flow  ineffably  in  his  brain,  and  nerves,  and 
blood. 

"My  own  Lenny.  .  .  .  My  sweetheart.  .  .  . 
My  dearest  boy." 

He  stifled  the  voice  with  kisses.  He  held  her  closer 
and  tighter,  and  still  that  curious  mental  peace  deepened 
as  the  embrace  grew  more  passionately  intimate.  Nothing 
else  matters:  this  is  all. 

"Angel  of  my  life.     .     .     .     Alma — my  Alma." 

Appeasement,  confidence,  unutterable  satisfaction — in 
each  flying  moment  she  gave  back  to  him  some  elemental 
comfort  that  had  been  taken  from  him.  It  was  as  if 
he  had  been  a  stately  mansion  recently  knocked  to  pieces, 
and  now  she  was  building  him  up  again;  or  a  wounded 
man  whose  wounds  she  was  making  whole;  or  an  empty 
box  from  which  valuable  stores  had  been  taken,  and 
into  which  she  was  pouring  the  most  priceless  treasures. 

80 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Lenny,  are  you  glad — are  you  really  glad  to  see  me?" 
"Alma!    I've  no  words  to  tell  you  how  glad.     .     .     . 
Sit  over  there — and  I'll  try,  I'll  try  to  say  how  I  have  pined 
for  you." 

He  was  contented,  satisfied,  ready  to  watch  her  sitting 
opposite  to  him — willing  to  chat  and  laugh  about  insig- 
nificant topics,  or  to  talk  seriously  of  the  restaurant  at 
which  he  proposed  to  dine — while  she  was  still  clinging, 
whispering,  and  passionately  desiring. 


XI 


THEY  spent  the  whole  of  Sunday  together,  and  now, 
after  dinner  at  a  quiet  and  unfashionable  restaurant, 
they  had  returned  to  his  rooms. 

Situated  in  one  of  the  short  cuts  from  Bond  Street  to 
Hanover  Square,  these  furnished  apartments  were  both  con- 
venient and  comfortable,  and  Lenny  occupied  them  during 
all  his  visits  to  London.  He  had  tried  other  houses,  but 
never  felt  quite  so  much  at  ease  as  here  in  old  Albert  Street. 
The  landlord  and  his  wife  catered  exclusively  for  bachelor 
gentlemen,  understood  their  ways,  and  knew  when  to  offer 
attention  and  when  to  efface  themselves. 

Altogether  there  were  three  sets  of  rooms,  and  each  iden- 
tical in  plan:  sitting-room  in  front,  bedroom  at  back,  the 
two  rooms  communicating.  Lenny  used  to  ask  for  the 
first-floor  rooms,  and,  if  he  could  not  get  them,  he  would 
accept  the  second  floor,  or  even  the  third — anything  rather 
than  again  go  vaguely  hunting  for  suitable  accommodation 
elsewhere.  He  was  on  the  second  floor  this  time — furniture 
less  luxurious  than  down  below,  but  better  than  up  above, 
and  cost  half  way  between. 

"Has  your  pipe  gone  out,  Lenny?  Shall  I  get  you 
the  matches?" 

"No,  don't  move.     I'm  all  right." 

He  sat  smoking  in  an  armchair  by  the  hearth.  Alma 
Reed  sat  on  a  footstool,  with  arms  stretched  across  his 
knees,  and  while  he  lazily  and  luxuriously  puffed  at  his 
pipe  she  had  been  looking  intently  into  the  fire. 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"There,"  she  murmured,  "that  was  an  unlucky  break. 
These  coals,  Lenny,  must  be  very  good  or  very  bad — they 
burn  so  fast,  and  they  split  into  such  extraordinary  shapes. 
.  .  .  They  are  showing  me  wonderful — most  wonderful 
things.  There,  what  a  pity!  Another  unlucky  break.  My 
picture  has  gone." 

"What  was  it?" 

"A  valley  between  high  mountains — terrific  peaks,  higher 
than  anything  in  Switzerland — and  a  roaring  torrent  below 
a  ledge  that  formed  the  only  path  for  human  feet.  It 
was  terribly  dangerous — it  made  me  dizzy  to  think  about; 
but  you  and  I  were  walking  along  it,  hand  in  hand,  quite 
safely." 

"Oh,  I  say.     It  makes  me  dizzy  to  hear  about  it." 

She  laughed  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  shouldn't  be  afraid,  with  you,  Lenny." 

Then  she  looked  back  at  the  burning  coals;  and  he, 
watching  her,  thought  for  a  moment  of  the  last  face  that  he 
had  seen  with  firelight  on  it.  When  his  father  spoke  the 
bitterest  of  many  bitter  words,  his  face  was  illuminated 
by  just  such  a  red  glow  and  yellow  flicker.  Lenny  drove 
away  the  memory  of  it.  Futile  recollections  would  mar 
this  exquisite  comfort  of  unthinking  rest. 

"Then  it's  all  settled  about  to-morrow,"  he  said  cheer- 
fully.    "Sure  you  can  manage  it?" 

"Absolutely  sure.  Another  long  day  with  my  darling. 
.  .  .  Lenny,  even  now  I  can  hardly  believe  it's  all  true 
— that  you  are  really  with  me,  that  I  have  been  with  you — 
that  I  am  still  to  be  with  you." 

"And  you  won't  get  into  a  row  about  it?  They  won't 
make  a  fuss?" 

"No — not  that  I  should  care,  if  they  did." 

"I'm  afraid  you  work  too  hard." 

"Oh,  no.     The  work  occupies  me — if  I   can't   say   it 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

amuses  me.  Yes,  on  my  honour,  I  like  the  work.  But 
of  course  a  holiday  will  do  me  good." 

It  had  been  arranged  that  she  was  to  play  truant  from 
the  offices  of  her  Organization,  and  if  the  day  proved  fine 
they  would  go  out  of  London  to  some  pretty  place  like 
Richmond,  Kingston,  or  Windsor.  They  would  walk  in 
a  park,  stroll  by  a  river,  or  stare  at  state  saloons  and 
monarchs'  writing-tables.  If  it  rained,  they  were  to  stay 
in  London,  and  see  pictures  or  listen  to  music.  They 
would  be  together — it  didn't  matter  where. 

"What  excuse  will  you  send  them?" 

"I  shall  say  I'm  ill — one  more  lie  on  your  account, 
Lenny;"    and   she   laughed    again. 

Her  laughter  had  in  it  certain  tones  that  he  remembered 
in  her  singing  voice.  It  was  a  natural  ripple  of  musical 
sound,  with  an  unexpected  drop  and  deepening  of  the 
note  that  affected  one  strangely.  It  forced,  as  if  infallibly, 
a  sympathetic  response;  made  one  vibrate  and  echo,  and 
yet  perhaps  left  one  ignorant  of  its  cause  and  meaning. 
One  was  expressing  sympathy,  but  with  what?  Not  with 
mirth  only.  To-night  while  he  laughed  with  her,  he  felt 
vaguely  sorry  for  her. 

"Now  I've  a  picture  tame  enough  and  flat  enough  to 
suit  the  least  romantic.  Lenny,  the  coals  have  shown  me 
Westchurch — dull,  stupid,  odious  little  Westchurch." 

The  room  was  bright  and  cheerful;  through  the  open 
door  of  the  bedroom  he  could  see  the  light  of  another  fire 
flaming  gaily;  everything  about  him  suggested  restful  peace, 
securely  sheltered  pleasure;  and  yet,  while  he  thoughtfully 
looked  down  at  Alma's  pretty  face  and  graceful  figure,  a 
queer  bothering  kind  of  sadness  invaded  his  mind. 

As  pretty  as  she  had  ever  been?  Yes,  every  bit — but 
perhaps  a  little  thinner,  more  worn,  and  perceptibly  older. 
Oh,  without  doubt,  the  slow  passage  of  the  years  had  left 

84 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

their  indelible  print.  That  heavy  tress  of  dark  hair  threw 
its  shadow  on  the  curve  of  a  narrowed  cheek;  the  delicately 
modelled  nose  seemed  in  the  slightest  degree  longer,  and 
sharper  of  outline;  the  chin  had  lost  roundness  and  full- 
ness ;  and  some  quality  of  courageous  pride  and  candid  child- 
like defiance  had  vanished  from  the  firm  setting  of  the 
closed  lips.  Looking  at  her  shoulders  and  the  puffy  loose 
sleeves  of  her  blouse,  he  noticed  how  slender  were  the 
wrists  emerging  from  the  sheath  of  unnecessary  fabric. 
Then  he  scrutinized  the  white  neck  bending  forward,  seem- 
ing to  droop  from  a  low  collar.  She  used  to  wear  high  col- 
lars, when  her  neck  was  a  trifle  solider  and  bigger. 
Changes?  Yes,  some  slight — very  slight  differences  be- 
tween the  girl  of  twenty-three  and  the  woman  of  twenty- 
nine. 

But  all  the  original  charm  must  surely  be  there — in- 
creased, intensified,  multiplied  by  familiarity  and  custom. 
Yesterday  she  had  at  once  evoked  the  ancient  raptures. 
And  now  if  for  an  instant  he  doubted  the  potency  of  her 
spells,  it  was  because  the  long  day  had  tired  him. 

He  reached  out  his  hand  and  let  it  rest  softly  on  the 
nape  of  her  bent  neck.  He  could  remember  the  first  time 
he  had  done  this,  and  the  thickening  rush  of  emotions  that 
the  action  and  its  acceptance  had  produced  in  him — the 
triumphant  thrill  of  the  proprietor,  as  intuitively  he  com- 
prehends the  meek  submission  of  the  thing  possessed. 

And  he  felt  it  again  now — a  fainter  and  more  languid 
delight,  but  essentially  the  same  as  the  old  joy. 

His  long  day  had  naturally  engendered  fatigue.  He 
was  too  tired  to  go  on  smoking;  his  pipe  was  finished,  and 
he  did  not  trouble  to  refill  it.  He  could  not  have  sus- 
tained any  animated  discussion — such  as  his  companion  loved 
— on  large  abstract  questions;  but  he  enjoyed  their  quiet 
desultory  talk  about  small   finite  things. 

85 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Lenny,  you  can't  have  exhausted  your  budget  of  local 
news.     Does  nothing  startling  ever  happen  nowadays?" 

"No — really  nothing  at  all." 

"No  wild  horses  to  run  away?"  And,  smiling,  she 
looked  up  at  him.     "No  opening  for  sensational  exploits?" 

"Well— no,  nothing." 

He  had  been  on  the  point  of  telling  her  how  Gerald 
Dryden  went  out  in  the  lifeboat,  but  he  checked  himself. 
It  would  be  a  longish  tale,  and  he  felt  too  tired  to  begin 
it.  She  would  get  excited,  and  make  him  supply  endless 
details. 

"Lenny,  what  do  they  say  of  me  nowadays?" 

"My  pretty  Alma,  how  should  I  know?  I  never  listen 
to  their  gossip  and  twaddle." 

"Frances  Shipham  told  me  that  when  she  was  there  last 
Christmas,  they  were  still  slandering  me — not  to  her,  of 
course." 

"Alma,  I  sometimes  wonder — is  Frances  altogether  dis- 
creet?" 

"Yes — altogether." 

"I    wonder." 

"Don't  wonder.  Frances  is  as  true  as  steel." 

"Sometimes  I  have  thought  too — why  don't  you  ever 
come  down  and  show  yourself?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Because  you  don't  want  me  to, 
for  one  thing." 

"Alma!  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  tell  you  exactly  what  I  feel. 
It's  cowardly,  but  I  have  thought — I  confess  it — that  your 
coming  might  create  difficulties.  You  would  be  plied  with 
questions.  If  you  gave  a  doubtful  answer,  somebody's  sus- 
picions might  be  aroused.  .  .  .  And,  well,  you  know 
how  greatly  I  dread  anything  that  might  threaten  our 
friendship." 

86 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Yes,"  she  said  slowly,  "they  wouldn't  quite  understand 
our  friendship — at  Westchurch." 

"No.  Whereas  it  is  safe  here.  Nothing  can  interrupt 
it.  In  London  people  are  too  busy  to  bother  about  other 
people's  affairs." 

"How  true!"  Her  laughter  had  a  different  note,  and 
it  grew  light  instead  of  deepening.  "Lenny,  I  insist  on 
your  giving  me  some  news  of  my  home."  She  raised  her 
head,  shaking  back  the  weight  of  hair  as  she  used  to  do 
when  playing  the  first  bars  of  a  song  accompaniment.  "It 
is  what  the  banished  heroine  demands  in  melodramas,"  and 
she  smiled  at  him.  "I  ask  you,  Leonard  Calcraft,  to  tell 
me  something  of  my  dear  old  home.  .  .  .  How  is 
papa's  golf  getting  on?" 

"Oh,  it's  marvellous,"  and  Lenny  laughed  gaily.  "They 
say  his  handicap  is  three  hundred  and  five." 

"And  how  is  my  energetic  step-mamma?" 

"More  energetic  than  ever." 

"Poor  dear!"  And  Alma  imitated  Mrs.  Reed's  hurried 
bustling  manner.  "One  must  not  flag  or  neglect  one's 
duties  when  one  has  four  unmarried  daughters.  Don't 
you  think  I'm  wise?" 

"Oh,  very  wise.  They  must  be  prepared  for  disappoint- 
ment." 

"And  now  for  a  real  friend — my  best  friend — perhaps 
the  only  friend  left  to  me  in  Westchurch!" 

"Miss  Workman?" 

"No — dear  old  Father  Marchant." 

Lenny's  face  grew  sombre,  and  he  spoke  gravely. 

"Alma,  have  you  ever  told  Father  Marchant  that — that 
we  are  such  pals?" 

"No.     But  he  may  have  guessed." 

"How  could  he  guess?" 

87 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Oh,  our  priests  guess  everything — they  know  every- 
thing." 

"Do  they?    But  how?" 

She  had  been  kneeling,  with  her  elbows  on  his  knees; 
and  while  she  talked,  she  twisted  her  fingers  about  his 
watch-chain.  Now  she  subsided  to  the  footstool,  and  sat 
with  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap. 

"In  my  case,  Lenny,  the  guessing  would  have  been  a 
simple  matter.  You  see,  after  I  left  Westchurch  Father 
Marchant  used  to  write  me  letters  of  advice,  and  he  gave 
me  an  introduction  to  another  director — an  old  friend  of 
his — Canon  Langley-Rees — at  the  Hebden  Street  church." 

"You  mean  for  confessions,  and  all  that?" 

"Yes." 

"I  see.  That  made  a  link — a  channel  of  communication. 
But,  Alma,  I  thought  the  seal  of  the  confessional  was  so 
sacred.  Surely  this  Canon  What's-his-name  wouldn't  write 
and  tell  Mr.  Marchant  things  that  you  had  confessed  to 
him  in  the  most  sacred  and  secret  manner?" 

"No.  But  he  would  write  and  tell  Father  Marchant 
that  I  hadn't  confessed  anything  at  all."  She  was  looking 
into  the  fire,  as  if  she  could  see  new  pictures.  "I  don't  go 
to  confession  now.  I  haven't  been  once  since — since  we 
became  such  pals." 

"Ah !  .  .  .  Yes,  I  think  you  have  hit  on  the  right 
explanation.  Marchant  has  been  putting  two  and  two  to- 
gether— and  he  would  trammel  your  freedom,  if  he  could. 
But  he  can't — he  can't  do  that,  can  he?" 

"No." 

She  got  up  and  stretched  herself.  As  she  raised  her 
arms  above  her  head,  and  the  wide  sleeves  drooped,  he 
again  noticed  the  slenderness  of  her  wrists.  She  must  not 
allow  herself  to  grow  any  thinner. 

"Lenny,  it  is  time  for  me  to  go.    What  is  the  time?" 

88 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Nearly  eleven." 

"Well,  then — I  suppose.  .  .  .  Have  I  worn  out  my 
welcome?    You  don't  ask  me  to  stay." 

"What  would  Frances  think?  Isn't  it  more  prudent  not 
to  relax  our  rules?    You  know  I  want  you  to  stay." 

"On  your  honour?  Then  suppose  I  take  you  at  your 
word?  .  .  .  No."  She  shook  her  head,  and  with  a 
flattened  palm  brushed  back  the  loosened  hair  above  her 
ears.  "No,  I  was  only  chaffing.  .  .  .  But  I  may  come 
back  early  to-morrow?" 

"We  said   ten-thirty — didn't  we?" 

"And  I  am  to  be  with  you  all  day?  That's  certain, 
isn't  it?" 

"As  certain  as  day  succeeds  to  night." 

She  went  into  the  bedroom  to  put  on  her  hat  and  coat; 
and  presently  he  followed  her.  She  was  in  front  of  the 
dressing-table  glass,  with  raised  hands  pinning  and  arrang- 
ing her  veil.  He  came  and  stood  behind  her,  put  his  arms 
round  her,  and  held  her  firmly. 

"I  feel  that  I  can't  let  you  go  after  all." 

"Then  don't  let  me  go — keep  me  here." 

"I  feel  I  want  to."  While  he  said  the  words  he  re- 
leased her,  and  she,  turning,  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 
"But,  Alma  dear,  I  feel  that  I  mustn't  allow  you  to  stay 
— even  a  little  while  longer.  Frances  will  be  sitting  up 
for  you." 

"No." 

"Then  who  would  let  you  in?" 

"I  have  my  key." 

"But  I  do  feel  it  would  be  folly  to  abandon  our  rules. 
They  have  made  the  position  so  secure — almost  unchal- 
lengeable— no  valid  cause  of  complaint  for  anybody,  really. 
One  imprudence — and  we  are  in  a  false  position.  I  do  feel 
that — always." 

89 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Do  you  know  what  /  feel?  I  am  being  turned  out  of 
paradise,  Lenny!"  She  had  thrown  her  arms  about  his 
neck;  she  was  clinging  to  him,  trembling  from  head  to  feet, 
and  suddenly  she  burst  into  tears.  "Lenny,"  she  sobbed, 
"do  you  ever  realize  what  you  are  to  me?" 

"My  sweetest  girl!" 

"Do  you  think — or  understand  one  thousandth  part  of  it? 
All  night  I  shall  lie  awake.  I  shall  think,  Why  am  I 
banished — why  am  I  lying  wretched  and  alone,  when  my 
king  is  here — when  he  has  come  to  me  out  of  the  dark- 
ness and  the  distance — and — and  the  black  despair  of  empty 
weeks  and  months?"  And  she  sobbed  and  clung  most  pit- 
eously. 

But  soon,  very  soon,  she  was  dabbing  the  wet  veil  with 
a  handkerchief,  readjusting  her  hat,  and  glancing  at  the 
table  to  find  her  gloves. 

"It's  all  right,  Lenny.  Don't  be  disgusted  with  me — or 
angry.  .  .  .  Go  down,  and  see  if  they  can  get  me  a 
cab.  .  .  .  Women  like  crying — once  in  a  way,  you 
know — not  too  often.  And  I  was  really  only  crying  be- 
cause of  my  happiness — a  little  overstrung,  you  know,  by 
your  coming  up  so  unexpectedly,  and  to-day's  treat — and 
to-morrow's  hope.  .  .  .  There,  I'm  quite  all  right 
now." 

She  smiled  at  him  reassuringly,  and  he  went  downstairs 
to  get  the  cab  fetched. 

He  was  dead  tired,  and  he  slept  like  a  log.  The  land- 
lord, bringing  letters,  tea,  and  bread  and  butter,  at  nine 
o'clock  next  morning,  had  difficulty  in  waking  him. 

For  a  few  moments  Lenny  was  under  the  illusion  that 
the  warmth  of  the  bed,  the  wintry  sunbeams,  the  faint 
perfume  of  infusing  tea,  all  belonged  to  Westchurch,  and 
that  he  was  shaking  off  the  heavy  but  delicious  numbness 

90 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

of  slumber  in  his  own  home.  Then  he  sat  up,  drank  the 
hot  tea,  munched  the  nice  strange-flavoured  bread  and  but- 
ter, and  stared  at  the  three  envelopes  on  the  tray.  Two  of 
them  most  uninteresting,  circulars  re-addressed  by  Mary, 
but  one  that  stirred  his  pulses  to  a  rapid  beat  and  made  him 
wide  awake — an  envelope  that  bore  his  father's  shaky  hand- 
writing. 

The  letter  had  been  written  late  on  Sunday,  just  in 
time  to  catch  the  evening  post;  and,  as  Lenny  read  it,  he 
was  completely  overwhelmed  by  the  emotional  stress  of  sur- 
prise, pleasure,  and  remorse. 

.  .  .  .  "It  has  been  mild  and  bright  here,  but  I  have 
had  no  inclination  to  go  and  free  the  bear.  The  sunshine 
cannot  lure  me  while  you  are  away."     .     .     . 

Lenny's  throat  tickled,  his  eyes  smarted,  his  ribs  seemed 
to  bulge  outward  from  the  internal  pressure.  Those  two 
sentences  wiped  away  the  rancorous  aftertaste  of  pain.  They 
were  an  irresistible  enticement  to  magnanimous  oblivion  of 
past  cruelty.  Falling  on  the  paper  from  that  shaky  hand, 
they  had  gathered  a  tremendous  force.  And  more  was  to 
follow. 

"It   breaks  my  heart   to   feel   that   there   is 

estrangement  between  us.  If  you  wished  to  punish  me 
for  a  few  hasty  words,  my  punishment  has  been  very  se- 
vere. Truly  I  think  that  anything  should  be  forgiven  to 
a  man  in  my  state. 

"But  you  would  not  forgive;  and  now  you  don't  even 
leave  me  my  pride,  for  I  am  compelled  to  implore  you 
to  forgive  me  and  come  home.  I  promise  that  I  will 
never  offend  you  again.  The  lesson  has  been  learnt.  Hence- 
forth fear  as  well  as  love  will  restrain  me."  And  consciously 
or  inadvertently  the  writer  repeated  one  of  his  phrases. 
"My  sunshine  is  gone  when  you  are  away." 

Lenny  sang  as  he  dressed  himself.     A  vast  burden  had 
7  91 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

been  lifted;  he  felt  light  as  air.  All  trace  of  resentment 
had  gone;  all  his  hard  thoughts  had  melted  and  were  flow- 
ing in  a  stream  of  tender  sentiment.  Had  he  wished  to  do 
so,  he  could  now  scarcely  have  recalled  the  stout  decisions 
and  boldly-sketched  plans  that  he  carried  with  him  on  his 
journey  to  London. 

When  he  closed  his  eyes  while  washing,  the  long-cher- 
ished mental  pictures  reconstituted  themselves,  flashed  and 
glowed,  grew  vivid  and  constant  in  slightly  altered  shapes — 
the  weak  old  man  who  leaned  upon  his  strength,  who  laid 
down  pride  to  plead  for  love,  who  stretched  out  praying 
hands  to  implore  pardon  and  peace. 

He  felt  healthier  and  heartier  than  in  any  moment  since 
Friday  afternoon.  A  prodigious  appetite  spurred  him  as 
he  attacked  his  breakfast  in  the  front  room,  while  the  land- 
lord began  to  pack  his  things  in  the  back  room. 

He  was  reading  the  newspaper  and  he  looked  round  with 
a  start  when  Alma,  unannounced,  suddenly  appeared. 

"The  door  downstairs  was  open,  and  there  was  nobody 
about,  so  I  came  straight  up." 

She  spoke  joyously,  and  her  eyes  were  glowingly  bright 
as  they  beamed  at  him  through  a  new  veil.  She  was  charm- 
ingly dressed  in  brown,  with  pheasants'  feathers  shining  on 
a  small  brown  hat,  and  brown  fur  dangling  round  her 
throat.  A  quick  walk  had  brought  the  pretty  pink  tints 
to  her  face,  and  her  lips  seemed  warm  and  red;  altogether 
she  seemed  to  have  recovered  the  youthfulness  that  he  had 
missed  last  night.  She  seemed  to  him  very  much  younger — 
exactly  like  the  Alma  Reed  who  hurried  along  the  sea-walk 
to  meet  him  on  bright  mornings  five  years  ago. 

"Heaven  and  the  clerk  of  the  weather  have  been  kind 
to  us.  It  is  a  glorious  day.  It  shall  be  Windsor,  Lenny." 
She  was  raising  her  veil.  "Lenny,  aren't  you  even  going 
to  kiss  me?" 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Of  course  I  am." 

"Lenny,  what  is  it?"  She  had  drawn  back,  and  she 
looked  at  him  inquiringly.  "You  have  something  on  your 
mind.     What  is  it?" 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  there's  something  I  want  to  tell  you. 
.    .    .    Let's  come  over  here." 

They  sat  side  by  side,  close  together,  on  one  of  the  cush- 
ioned window-seats,  and  he  told  her  of  "disquieting  news" 
that  he  had  received  from  Westchurch — his  father  not  get- 
ting on  well,  requiring  attention,  worrying  himself  dan- 
gerously. 

"But  he  was  all  right  when  you  left  him.  You  said 
yourself  he  was  unusually  vigorous.  He  can't  have  taken 
a  bad  turn  so  quickly.     Has  Dr.  Searle  written  to  you?" 

"No,  he  wrote  himself." 

"Then  don't  be  alarmed.  If  he  were  really  ill,  Dr. 
Searle  would  have  written." 

"Yes,  that's  true.  Oh,  no,  I  don't  think  he  is  actually 
ill  yet;  but  he  is  worrying  himself — making  himself  ill.  He 
needs  me  there — and,  Alma,  he  begs  me  to  get  back  to 
him." 

"When?" 

"Oh,  he  doesn't  name  any  time;  but  I  feel  myself  that 
it's  my  duty — that  I  ought  to  go  at  once — to-day." 

"No,"  she  said  firmly.  "You  can't  go.  It  is  my  day. 
You  have  given  it  to  me." 

"Alma!" 

He  looked  at  her  reproachfully,  and  he  noticed  the  swift 
change  of  her  aspect.  In  place  of  the  colour  and  anima- 
tion, there  was  a  stone-like,  obdurate  pallor;  and  as  she 
went  on  speaking,  her  voice  sounded  harshly,  unnaturally, 
with  a  quite  unrecognizable  tone. 

"You  have  duties  to  me  as  well  as  to  him.  Is  he  every- 
thing, and  I  nothing?     .     .     .     Your  word  of  honour — 

93 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

doesn't  that  count  either?  You  said  as  certain  as  night 
succeeds  to  day.     How  long  is  my  night  to  be?" 

There  was  something  rigid  and  ungraceful  about  the  atti- 
tude of  her  body — the  bosom  retracted  and  seeming  flat, 
the  elbows  drawn  back  awkwardly  and  pressed  in  to  the 
sides;  and  when  she  changed  the  attitude,  she  did  it  with 
a  spasmodic  jerk,  turning  round  abruptly  to  the  window 
sashes  and  staring  stonily  downward  at  the  narrow  little 
street. 

"Alma." 

She  did  not  answer;  she  did  not  move  again  for  a  con- 
siderable time.  During  this  long  pause  he  watched  her 
thoughtfully.  In  the  full  light  of  the  window  she  looked 
old,  almost  haggard;  a  bluish  tint  that  habitually  sur- 
rounded her  eyes  had  widened  and  deepened;  her  lips 
seemed  bloodless,  and  disfigured  by  a  persistent  contraction 
at  the  corners. 

"Very  well."  She  had  risen  abruptly  and  walked  across 
to  the  fireplace,  and  she  spoke  without  looking  at  him.  "I 
yield  to  the  inevitable.  I  am  not  a  child.  I  mustn't  cry 
and  pout — and  make  myself  a  nuisance  because  I'm  deprived 
of  a  holiday.  .  .  .  Oh!"  She  swung  round  and  pointed 
at  the  bedroom  door.     "There's  somebody  in  there." 

"It's  only  Steel — my  landlord." 

She  was  startled,  and  a  little  colour  showed  on  her 
cheeks,  while  she  whispered  breathlessly. 

"Has  he  been  listening?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Yes,  he's  busy — he  won't  hear  what  we're  saying." 

Lenny  had  not  stirred  from  the  window-ledge,  and  pres- 
ently she  came  back  to  him,  knelt  between  his  legs,  and  put 
her  gloved  hands  on  his  breast. 

"Lenny,  my  darling,  I  won't  be  a  selfish  little  beast.    Of 

94 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

course  you  must  go.  Yes,  I  tell  you  to  go.  But  promise 
me  that  this  sort  of  thing  isn't  to  continue  for  ever." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  this — you  are  obeying  claims  that  you  consider 
paramount.  They  override  all  other  claims.  But  some 
time  they  will  cease — in  the  natural  course  of  events  they 
must  cease  sooner  or  later." 

He  winced  and  shivered;  but  she  went  on  without  re- 
garding his  silent  protest. 

"Swear  to  me  that  the  time  is  coming  when  I  shall  be 
with  you  always — that  my  time  shall  begin  directly  you 
are  set  free." 

"Alma,  don't  speak  so  callously  of — of  father's  death. 
I  simply  can't  bear  it." 

"Very  well.  Then  I'll  put  it  like  this.  Do  you  swear 
that  if  you  were  free  now,  you  would  place  me  first  *n  your 
life?" 

Her  voice  vibrated  with  intense  feeling;  in  her  whole 
manner  there  was  resolved  purpose. 

"My  dear  Alma."  He  was  gently  patting  her  hands 
as  they  pressed  and  trembled  against  his  waistcoat,  and  he 
answered  slowly,  hesitatingly.  "You  ought  to  know  that 
nothing  but  necessity  would  take  me  away  from  you  to-day." 

"Yes,  but  it's  not  to-day.  I'm  not  thinking  of  to-day 
any  more.  I'm  thinking  of  the  thousands  of  days  that  lie 
before  us." 

"And  happy  days,  Alma."  His  hesitation  increased,  and 
he  spoke  very  slowly.  "But  one's  future  is,  necessarily,  a 
closed  book.  Nothing  is  ever  gained  by  attempting  to  turn 
its  leaves;  and — it  may  be  cowardly — but  I  always  have  a 
superstitious  horror  of " 

"No."  The  word  came  like  a  cry  of  pain,  and  as  she 
went  on  speaking  her  intensity  had  an  almost  tragic  note. 
"That's  all  right  for  you,  but  not  for  me.     One  thing  in 

95 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

the  future  is  certain — a  page  we  know  is  there,  so  we 
needn't  open  the  book  to  look  at  it.  Even  if  I  hurt  you, 
I  must  say  again  what  I  mean.  One  day — ages  ahead,  per- 
haps— you  will  have  the  power  to  make  our  companion- 
ship permanent,   unbreakable." 

"Alma — my  prett)  Alma — don't  get  so  excited.  Can 
you  doubt  that  I  wish  for  the  companionship?  Haven't 
I  shown  it — unceasingly?" 

"Yes,  I  don't  doubt  you.  But  I  must  understand — I 
must  know  from  your  own  lips  again  and  again,  if  I  ask 
you.  I  am  building — I  have  built  my  life  on  your  prom- 
ises.    I  must  feel  solid  ground  under  me." 

Then  he  pacified  her  by  a  renewal  of  all  such  promises 
and  vows  as  she  seemed  to  be  craving  from  him;  and  in 
a  moment  the  tragic  mask  was  dropped  and  she  again 
smiled. 

"Now,  I'm  quite  happy.  And  you  can  leave  me  with  a 
light  heart.  Go  home  happily,  and  come  back  to  your 
troublesome  Alma  as  soon  as  you  possibly  can." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead.  "My  unselfish 
little  girl.  It  is  sweet  of  you  to  let  me  go — to  forgive  me 
for  breaking  a  promise." 

"I  should  be  a  wretch  if  I  tried  to  detain  you.  And 
what  kind  of  treat  would  it  be  for  me,  if  I  knew  that  my 
darling's  thoughts  and  inclinations  were  miles  and  miles 
away?" 

"Yes,  but  I  do  wish  you  could  have  a  little  treat  all  the 
same.  Would  Frances  be  available?  Now  that  you  have 
taken  the  day  off,  it  seems  such  a  pity  to  waste  it.  ' 

"Never  mind  about  me.    I  shall  amuse  myself  all  right." 

Mr.  Steel  the  landlord  tapped  at  the  bedroom  door,  and 
after  a  discreet  pause  opened  it. 

"I've   strapped   up  everything,   sir,   except    the   dressing- 

96 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

case.  I've  left  that  unstrapped  for  anything  you  might 
have  forgotten." 

"Oh,  thank  you.     Much  obliged." 

Alma  had  moved  to  the  other  window  and  was  looking 
down  into  the  street.  She  waited  until  she  heard  the  bed- 
room door  closed,  and  when  she  turned  to  Lenny  she  was 
smiling  rather  piteously. 

"Then  it  was  all  settled,  Lenny,  before  I  came.  You 
had  quite  made  up  your  mind  to  go.  Mr.  Steel  was  pack- 
ing while  we  were  debating." 

"Yes — because  I  knew  that  as  soon  as  my  generous  un- 
selfish girl  understood  the  situation,  she  would  herself  tell 
me  to  go.  And  you  did  tell  me.  You  never  fail  me — so 
I  relied  on  you." 

She  moved  quickly  to  him,  and  once  more  embraced 
him. 

"Rely  on  me  always,  Lenny — rely  on  every  little  bit  of 
me,  just  as  surely  as  you  rely  on  yourself.  I  am  all  of  me 
yours — all  that  there  is  of  me — in  this  world  or  the  next." 

She  saw  him  off  at  the  railway  station,  and  stood  near 
the  steps  of  the  dining-car  till  it  crept  away.  His  last 
glimpse  of  her  was  "very  pleasant.  She  stood  quite  still, 
smiling,  not  waving  her  hand  in  the  style  of  common  folk; 
she  had  the  self-possessed  graciously  sedate  air  of  charming 
well-bred  people;  and  she  looked  pretty  as  well  as  grace- 
ful in  her  neat  brown  frock  and  brown  fur — altogether  a 
life-companion  of  whom  no  one  on  earth  need  feel  ashamed. 

It  was  an  express  train,  due  to  reach  Westchurch  at 
2.50;  the  luncheon  served  in  the  car  at  12.45  was  excel- 
lent; and  by  3.30  Lenny  walked  along  the  concrete  path 
beside  the  wheels  of  his  father's  chair. 

"Not  tired,  dad?     Feel  up  to  your  full  journey?"     He 

97 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

talked  buoyantly  and  continuously.  The  reconciliation 
was  absolutely  complete.  "Then  we'll  free  the  bear  to- 
gether." 

"Yes,  yes,  Lenny,  my  bear  shall  be  free — now  that  I  have 
you  to  help  me." 


XII 


JOURNEYS  to  London  were  out  of  the  question  for 
a  long  time  now.  The  winter  passed  away  in  an 
atmosphere  of  steam-kettles,  poultices,  and  embroca- 
tions: the  state  of  Mr.  Calcraft's  health  had  undergone  a 
perceptible  change  for  the  worse,  and  there  wras  great  anx- 
iety. Dr.  Searle  said,  "We  can  only  wait  and  see  what 
the  summer  does  for  him." 

The  summer  did  nothing  for  him.  And  another  winter 
opened  badly — grievous  complications,  heart,  lungs,  and 
stomach  all  co-operating  in  mischief,  the  miracle  of  how 
the  patient  was  kept  alive  becoming  every  day  more  mirac- 
ulous. His  career  had  dwindled  to  its  narrowest  bounds; 
for  weeks  he  remained  in  his  bed,  for  months  he  never 
came  out  of  his  room. 

Everything  must  be  readily  forgiven  to  such  a  sufferer. 
However  outrageous  the  things  he  said,  they  could  arouse 
no  resentment  now;  querulousness,  unjust  insinuations, 
blind  rages,  and  violent  abuse,  merely  moved  his  nurse  and 
his  servants  to  a  deeper  pity. 

So  far  as  Lenny  was  concerned,  there  had  been  nothing 
to  forgive.  Whoever  got  the  rough  side  of  the  master's 
tongue,  it  was  not  Lenny.  Mr.  Calcraft  had  kept  that  sol- 
emn promise  never  to  offend  again.  With  Lenny,  through- 
out this  slow-creeping  time,  he  had  been  soft  and  gentle 
always.  That  is,  except  once,  when  for  a  few  moments— 
a  very  few  moments — he  relapsed  into  rudeness. 

It  was  on  one  of  his  best  days,  and  he  had  suddenly 
begun  to  talk  of  the  future. 

99 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Lenny,  I  think  it  right  to  tell  you  that  I  am  doing 
something  more  for  your  two  sisters  than  I  had  intended." 

"What  is  that,  father?  Do  you  mean  to  have  them 
here?" 

"No,  no,  God  forbid.  I'm  too  old,  I'm  too  ill,  it's  too 
late  for  family  reunions.  Jane  was  always  a  nuisance. 
And  I  can  never  really  forgive  Sarah  for  her  first  marriage; 
although  I  believe  this  other  fellow — Holway — her  second 
shot — is  a  good  deal  better  than  the  first.  Quite  a  decent 
chap,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out." 

"Then  what  is  it,  father?" 

"I  am  talking  of  what  is  to  happen  after  my  death — 
my  will." 

Lenny  shuddered  at  the  ugly  sound  of  these  words,  and 
protested  that  he  did  not  want  to  hear  anything  about 
testamentary  arrangements. 

"No,  but  it's  right  you  should  know.  Your  sisters  have 
each  had  a  solid  lump  of  money.  It  was  my  money  in 
the  beginning,  you  know — settled  by  me  when  I  married 
your  mother.  I  may  add  that  it  was  a  silly  settlement — 
settlements  generally  are.  Much  better  keep  your  money 
in  your  own  hands — but  that's  beside  the  mark.  Of  course 
you  will  have  your  settled  lump  when  I  die.  Your  sisters 
took  their  lumps  on  marriage — and  that's  what  made  them 
so  infernally  uppish  with  me.  However,  I  won't  go  back 
to  that.  They  pooh-poohed  me  and  marched  off  with  what 
they  could  get.  Well,  I  meant  that  to  be  all  they  ever 
would  get;  and  I  meant  to  give  you  the  rest,  whatever  it 
may  come  to.  It  seemed  fair  to  me.  You  have  done  so 
much  more  for  me — so  infinitely  more  for  me  than  they." 
He  looked  at  Lenny,  blinked,  and  raised  a  frail  hand  to 
shade  his  eyes.  "But  then,  when  I  thought  it  over  very 
carefully,  it  didn't  seem  fair— or  fair,  but  not  generous. 
You  see,  you   are  still  the  gay  bachelor;  the  probabilities 

100 


IN   COTTON   WOOT, 

are  that  you  will  never  marry.  You  will  have  sufficient 
anyhow.  But  as  to  those  two  fools — well,  there  are  chil- 
dren growing  up,  and  so  on,  and  so  forth.  So  I  decided 
that  all  three  of  you  should  share  alike."  He  dropped  his 
hand,  and  looked  hard  at  Lenny. 

"Father,  I  really  cannot  bear  to  think  of  what  I  hope 
is  not  going  to  happen  for  a  very  long  time." 

"Don't  be  an  ass,"  said  Mr.  Calcraft  irritably  and  rudely, 
committing  his  one  and  only  relapse.  "Your  thinking  about 
it  won't  make  it  happen  any  the  sooner;  and  there  is  al- 
ways a  suspicion  of  humbug  when  one  gets  a  sentiment  in 
answer  to  a  business  question.  Do  you  object?  Do  you 
think  I  am  treating  you  shabbily?" 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  protested  Lenny. 

"Thank  you,  Lenny,"  said  his  father  in  a  soft  and  apolo- 
getic tone.  "You  see,  I  have  trusted  you  in  this  matter. 
It  is  what  I  wish,  and  I  felt  pretty  sure — I  felt  altogether 
sure — that  you  would  respect  my  wish,  whatever  it  might 
be." 

Sometimes  there  was  a  remission  of  the  more  distressing 
symptoms,  a  respite  or  stationary  period,  when  Mr.  Cal- 
craft showed  what  might  be  mistaken  for  definite  improve- 
ment; but  Dr.  Searle's  expert  eye  saw  very  plainly  that 
the  slow  down-hill  progress  was  quite  unchecked. 

It  seemed  to  Lenny  that  gradually  a  shadow  had  de- 
scended on  the  house,  making  a  perpetual  twilight,  even 
if  the  sun  was  shining  its  brightest  or  the  electric  lamps 
blazing  most  profusely.  The  shadow  was  in  his  mind 
also,  filling  every  unexplored  recess  of  it ;  his  thoughts  never 
flashed  or  glowed,  but  worked  feebly,  gropingly,  under  the 
greyness  and  darkness  of  a  prevailing  dread. 

Little  by  little  he  had  dropped  his  customary  habits. 
He  went  no  more  to  the  club  of  an  evening.     As  if  sym- 

101 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

pathetically,  his  own  existence  had  contracted  to  the  same 
limitations  as  those  of  the  cherished  invalid,  so  that  the 
house  held  him  a  prisoner  too.  Outside  of  It  nothing  con- 
tained any  real  interest  for  him. 

"Come,  come,"  said  Dr.  Searle,  "this  won't  do  at  all. 
You  must  rouse  yourself  and  take  exercise,  whether  you 
like  it  or  not.  Think  where  we  should  be  if  you  were  to 
break  down." 

"Yes,"  said  Lenny,  in  a  forlorn  voice,  "I  don't  want 
to  break  down." 

Obeying  the  doctor,  he  used  to  go  for  lonely  walks  along 
the  concrete  path  by  the  sea;  feeling  at  times  like  a  ghost 
who  takes  an  automatic  promenade  through  the  scenes  of 
a  half-forgotten  life,  and  wishing  that  like  a  ghost  he  could 
frighten  people  and  make  them  run  away  from  him.  He 
had  no  such  repelling  power.  People  stopped  him,  to 
press  his  hand,  utter  kind  inquiries,  and  add  consolatory 
phrases  which  increased  the  weight  that  already  lay  upon 
his  heart. 

Friends  bored  him,  and  strangers  could  not  interest  him. 
Ordinarily  he  would  have  been  curious  to  learn  about 
the  well-dressed  nice-looking  woman  who  regularly  prome- 
naded with  her  maid  on  fine  afternoons. 

Once  or  twice  in  passing  she  glanced  at  him,  and  the 
transient  glance  seemed  to  express  faint  surprise  or  inter- 
rogation. It  was  as  if  she  had  unexpectedly  seen  a  new 
feature  in  the  landscape,  something  finer  or  larger  than 
she  had  been  prepared  for  by  previous  investigation  of  the 
neighbourhood. 

Her  eyes  did  not  linger.  Nevertheless,  that  notion  of 
a  mute  inquiry  conveyed  by  a  pretty  woman's  glance  would 
ordinarily  have  been  sufficient  to  awake  in  him  a  faint 
pleasure,  interest,  or  hope.  There  would  have  been  some 
sort  of  reaction  to  the  stimulus.     Now  there  was  nothing. 

102 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

He  knew  that  she  was  staying  at  the  Esplanade  Hotel; 
for  he  had  seen  her  in  the  garden.  One  morning,  as  he 
stood  at  his  dressing-room  window,  she  walked  up  and 
down  a  path  with  a  book  in  her  hands.  Then  the  maid 
came  out,  carrying  shawls,  and  established  her  mistress 
upon  one  of  the  sheltered  seats,  wrapped  the  shawls  round 
her,  and  left  her  reading  the  book.  Lenny  watched  her 
dully.  The  sky  was  blue  above  the  glistening  green  of 
the  ilex  trees ;  the  garden  seemed  full  of  sunlight ;  he  thought 
vaguely  that  this  must  be  like  a  winter  day  in  Italy;  and 
yet,  for  him,  there  hung  a  shadowy  veil  over  the  whole 
view,  so  that  there  was  no  real  colour  or  life  in  anything 
he  looked  at.  Presently  the  garden  seat  was  empty.  While 
he  had  been  thinking  about  the  Mediterranean,  the  strange 
lady  must  have  gone  indoors. 

She  proved  to  be  a  Mrs.  Fletcher.  One  afternoon  on  the 
sea-front  he  encountered  her  walking  with  Miss  Work- 
man, who  stopped  him  and  immediately  made  the  intro- 
duction. Then  they  all  three  walked  on  together  to  the 
garden  entrance  of  the  hotel,  and  there  stood  talking  for  a 
few  minutes. 

She  was  a  woman  of  any  age  between  twenty-three  and 
twenty-seven — plump  and  round  in  outline,  not  tall,  but 
yet  not  what  one  would  describe  as  short.  Lenny  noticed 
that  her  figure,  though  so  fully  developed  for  her  size, 
was  exceedingly  well-proportioned.  Examining  her  more 
closely  while  she  spoke  to  Miss  Workman,  he  saw  that  she 
was  fair-haired  and  blue-eyed,  with  a  delicate  transparent 
complexion  in  which  the  rose  tints  flushed  and  faded  rap- 
idly. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him  and  offering 
her  hand.  "Please  take  pity  on  me,  and  come  in  to 
tea  any  day  you  feel  you  ought  to  do  a  charitable 
action." 

103 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

Directly  she  had  gone,  enthusiastic  Miss  Workman  be- 
gan to  praise  her. 

"Isn't  she  delightful?  So  charming — so  fascinating?  Do 
go  and  see  her.  She  was  particularly  anxious  to  meet  you, 
and  /  was  most  anxious  to  bring  you  together.  She  is  ac- 
customed to  the  great  world,  and  naturally  can  have  noth- 
ing in  common  with  most  of  the  people  here — and  it  is  so 
sad  to  be  thrown  entirely  on  oneself,  as  she  is." 

"Isn't  her  husband  with  her?" 

"Her  husband  is  dead.  She  has  been  a  widow  for  over 
two  years." 

It  seemed  churlish  totally  to  disregard  the  appeal  of  a 
disconsolate  stranger;  and  so  Lenny,  after  waiting  for  an 
afternoon  when  Mr.  Calcraft  was  drowsy  and  inert,  per- 
formed a  charitable  action  by  drinking  tea  with  Mrs. 
Fletcher. 

The  waiter,  an  old  friend,  conducted  him  to  her  private 
sitting-room,  where  he  found  her  all  by  herself,  playing 
patience  to  beguile  the  dull  hours;  and  she  welcomed  him 
with  obvious  pleasure. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Calcraft — how  really  nice  of  you!" 

At  first  they  stood  in  the  large  bow  window,  and  talked 
about  the  agreeable  outlook  and  the  fine  sunset. 

"We  rather  pride  ourselves  on  our  sunsets,"  said  Lenny. 
"They  are  quite  a  specialty." 

Already  dusk  was  falling.  A  silver  greyness  enveloped 
the  islands,  and  the  western  hills  rose  out  of  a  shadow  that 
stretched  right  across  the  land-locked  waters  of  the  estuary; 
but  their  undulating  ridge  was  still  clean-cut,  hard  of  out- 
line, like  a  piece  of  painted  scenery. 

"Beginning  to  fade,"  said  Mrs.  Fletcher,  "in  the  light 
that  she  loved,  on  a  bank  of  daffodil  sky.  But  that  would 
have  to  be  a  red  daffodil — and  there  aren't  any.     .     .     . 

Oh,  yes,  it  is  all  very  pretty,  but " 

104 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Then  she  explained  that,  tired  of  Egypt  and  the  Riviera, 
she  was  trying  to  spend  a  winter  in  England,  and  beginning 
to  think  that  she  must  give  it  up  as  a  bad  job  and  bolt. 

"These  English  watering-places  are  too  triste.  How  do 
you  contrive  to  exist  here,  Mr.  Calcraft?  .  .  .  I'm 
told  you  are  the  uncrowned  king  of  Westchurch — and  that 
you  reside  among  your  loyal  subjects  throughout  the  year. 
I  suppose  you  have  amusements  and  amenities  that  are  not 
accessible  to  casual  visitors — of  the  inferior  sex." 

Certainly  she  was  elegant  as  well  as  good-looking.  Stand- 
ing by  her  in  the  window,  he  became  conscious  of  consid- 
erable personal  charm.  She  had  a  quick  intense  way  of 
talking,  and  an  eager  way  of  listening  with  arched  eye- 
brows and  parted  lips — conveying  an  idea  that  the  rapidity 
of  her  thought  was  outrunning  your  words,  and  that  you 
must  speak  faster  if  you  wished  to  keep  up  with  her. 

"How  stupid  they  are  not  to  bring  the  tea!  You  do  take 
tea,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  like  Mrs.  Gamp — or  Dr.  Johnson — very 
fond  of  tea." 

"Dr.  Johnson  wouldn't  have  cared  for  many  cups  of  Es- 
planade Hotel  tea. — You  shall  have  our  own  brew.  I  sent 
my  maid  out  to  buy  some  real  tea,  after  one  dose  of  the 
stuff  supplied  by  the  management." 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Lenny,  with  polite  solicitude,  "that 
they  are  not  making  you  very  comfortable." 

She  gave  a  little  sigh,  and  shrugged  her  plump  shoulders. 
"They  mean  well,"  and  she  smiled.  "I  always  think  that 
is  the  most  damaging  thing  one  can  ever  say  by  way  of 
criticism.  When  you  hear  that  people  mean  well,  doesn't 
it  immediately  open  wide  vistas  of  incompetence  and  fail- 
ure?" 

The  waiter  brought  the  tea-things,  and  her  own  maid 
came  in  and  prepared  the  tea. 

105 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Evidently,  thought  Lenny,  she  was  very  well-off.  The 
maid  seemed  a  most  superior  young  woman,  discreetly  splen- 
did in  attire,  with  quite  the  style  and  manner  of  a  lady. 
As  he  knew,  this  first-floor  suite  of  rooms  was  the  "Es- 
planade's" very  best  and  most  expensive.  And  all  about 
the  room  he  could  see  lesser  indications  of  affluence.  The 
patience-table  was  one  of  those  costly  toys  that  fold  into 
a  small  compass,  and  cost  a  prodigious  amount  for  doing  so ; 
and  he  noticed  a  large  cut-glass  bowl  full  of  Parma  violets, 
a  writing-desk  of  purple  morocco  with  gold  fittings,  a  small 
Sevres  clock  that  unquestionably  did  not  belong  to  Mr. 
Nield  the  proprietor.  Then  there  were  innumerable  pho- 
tograph frames,  bright-coloured  pieces  of  embroidery,  and  a 
silver  cigarette  box — all  the  things  that  rich  women  la- 
boriously carry  about  with  them,  endeavouring  always  to 
reproduce  their  old  environment  in  new  places. 

She  insisted  that  he  should  occupy  what  she  said  was  the 
only  easy  chair  in  the  whole  hotel,  and,  while  waiting  on 
him  very  prettily  at  tea,  she  again  thanked  him  for  his  visit. 

And  all  at  once,  as  he  sat  sipping  and  munching,  he 
was  very  glad  that  he  had  made  the  effort  to  come  here. 
Her  atmosphere  was  pleasant  to  him;  the  fact  that  she  now 
did  most  of  the  talking  saved  him  from  trouble;  the  al- 
tered aspect  of  the  room  since  she  had  decorated  it  was 
delightful.  The  whole  thing  was  very  soothing  and 
restful. 

When  tea  was  over,  she  opened  the  silver  box,  gave  him 
a  cigarette,  and  lighted  one  herself. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  slowly,  after  puffing  out  a  little 
cloud  of  smoke,  "that  you  have  anxieties — great  anxieties; 
and  if  I  don't  speak  of  them,  it  isn't  that  I'm  unsympa- 
thetic." 

She  did  not  look  at  him  as  she  said  this,  and  he  felt 
grateful  to  her  for  her  delicacy  and  reticence. 

106 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"You  understand,  don't  you?  Expressions  of  sympathy 
from  strangers  are  bothering,  if  they  aren't  impertinent." 
Then  she  passed  lightly  to  easier  ground.  "What  an  old 
dear  Miss  Workman  is,  isn't  she? — and  very  fond  of  you, 
Mr.  Calcraft.  But,  of  course,  you  have  been  very  good 
to  her." 

"Good  to  her?  I've  never  done  anything  for  Miss 
Workman  in  her  life." 

"You've  always  been  kind  to  her,  and  in  some  lives 
kindness  is  everything," 

Each  minute  the  room  was  growing  darker.  The  plate- 
glass  windows  had  become  faint  squares  of  dull  silver,  and 
all  the  space  of  the  large  bow  was  vague  and  shadowy; 
but  the  fire  burned  cheerily,  and  made  of  the  hearth  a  sort 
of  cosy  corner  with  shadow  walls  on  either  side. 

"Do  you  mind  the  twilight?"  she  asked,  as  if  guessing 
at  his  thought. 

"Oh,  no." 

"I  love  it.  I  hate  everything  sham,  including  artificial 
light." 

She  had  settled  down  in  the  chair  opposite  to  him  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  and  there  was  a  pleasant  si- 
lence during  which  their  acquaintanceship  seemed  to  be 
ripening  so  swiftly  that  it  would  soon  develop  into  friend- 
ship. 

When  she  spoke  again,  it  was  meditatively,  and  as  if  to  a 
person  with  whom  one  might  let  one's  thoughts  fall  just 
as  they  presented  themselves,  without  waiting  to  arrange 
them  in  logical  sequence.  And  he  answered  her  in  the 
same  tranquil  unlaboured  style. 

Thus  they  smoked  their  cigarettes  and  chatted  for  a  little 
while,  and  then  she  swung  the  talk  into  very  wide  fields 
indeed — immortality,  the  riddle  of  the  universe,  ethics 
and  morals. 

8  lor 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"The  new  religions  are  as  stupid  as  the  old.  ...  I 
suppose  you  have  done  with  all  that  ages  ago — religion?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  have,"  said  Lenny. 

"But  do  you  believe  in  anything?  Mr.  Calcraft,  is 
there  anything  to  believe  inV 

Lenny  got  up  from  the  easy  chair,  stood  with  his  elbow 
on  the  chimney-piece,  and  talked — and  was  astounded  to 
hear  how  well  he  talked.  Psychology,  metaphysics,  philo- 
sophic doubt  and  scientific  conjecture — it  all  came  glibly 
rolling  off  his  tongue,  and  seemed  as  if,  should  that  be 
necessary,  it  could  go  rolling  on  at  the  same  high  level  of 
excellence  for  ever. 

".  .  .  .  So  I  adopt  the  waiting  frame  of  mind.  I 
draw  no  conclusions.  I  say,  The  evidence  is  inadequate. 
You  men  of  science,  you  theologians,  you  dreamers  of 
dreams,  have  laid  before  me  no  proofs.  So  I  say  I  will 
wait  for  the  proofs.     You  may  be — you  may — er " 

Unexpectedly  he  hesitated  and  began  to  flounder.  He 
had  noticed  her  patent  leather  shoe  on  the  fender,  with  the 
firelight  shining  against  it.  While  listening  to  him,  ap- 
parently with  rapt  attention,  she  had  drawn  away  her 
skirts  in  order  to  warm  her  feet,  and  had  exposed  the 
stockings  and  ankles.  Somehow  the  slight  action,  together 
with  the  faint  rustle  of  her  silk  petticoat,  caused  him  to 
lose  the  thread  of  his  eloquent  discourse. 

"Yes — er — as  I  was  saying,"  he  went  on  lamely,  "they 
may  be  all  right,  or  they  may  be  all  wrong." 

"I'm  sure  your  attitude  is  the  correct  one." 

Then,  without  perceptible  transition,  they  were  discuss- 
ing the  relations  of  the  sexes. 

"It  has  always  seemed  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Fletcher,  "that 
everything  is  made  so  absurdly  difficult  in  our  modern  civ- 
ilization. Instincts  are  hidden,  pretences  are  exhibited ; 
we  suppress   all   that  is  natural,   we   cultivate   all  that   is 

108 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

spurious;  we  fetter  ourselves  with  such  a  preposterous  load 
of  conventions  that  what  should  be  the  simplest  matter  on 
earth  has  become  the  most  supremely  complicated  problem 
of  our  existence.  If  two  people — sane  adults — of  opposite 
sexes  happen  to  please  each  other,  it  is — or  it  should  be — 
a  question  that  solely  concerns  themselves.  Yet  they  are 
not  allowed  to  settle  it,  to  find  the  normal  answer  or  solu- 
tion, but  all  the  world  wants  to  meddle  in  it.  .  .  .  Am 
I  shocking  you?"  t* 

"Indeed,  no." 

She  was  surprisingly  outspoken,  but  with  so  much  bold- 
ness of  thought  she  permitted  herself  no  license,  as  to  words. 
There  was  neither  indelicacy  nor  innuendo.  He  seemed 
to  recognize  the  emancipation  of  intellect — a  mind  that 
would  not  be  held  in  chains.  And  for  him  there  was  great 
charm  in  the  noble  freedom  of  talk  with  this  brilliantly 
clever  woman, — in  the  twilight, — in  the  darkening   room. 

"Of  course,"  she  continued,  "I  don't  believe  in  free  love. 
That's  all  nonsense.  And  I  don't  believe  in  the  marriage 
lease — five  years'  term,  and  thence  onward  year  by  year, 
subject  to  a  quarter's  notice  from  either  party.  No,  that's 
nonsense.  The  children — and  a  hundred  other  reasons! 
.  .  .  But  I  do  say  there's  something  hopelessly  wrong 
in  our  modern  system.  Half  of  these  loveless  marriages 
ought  to  be  avoided.  And — and  the  marriages  that  fall  to 
pieces,  the — the  marriages  that  fail — the — the  marriages 
that  aren't  marriages  at  all — ought  to  be  prevented." 

Suddenly  he  had  detected  emotion  behind  the  even  qual- 
ity of  her  voice — strong,  unmistakable  emotion. 

"Mr.  Calcraft,  this  is  only  the  second  time  I've  ever 
spoken  to  you,  and  now  I'm  really  going  to  shock  you. 
.  .  .  My  marriage  was  a  hideous  failure.  I  never  loved 
my  husband." 

The  fire  had  burnt  low  and  the  whole  room  was  nearly 

109 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

dark;  and  ft  seemed  that  the  little  waves  of  sound  sent 
by  her  voice  through  the  darkness  changed  themselves  to 
pulsations  as  they  reached  the  listener. 

"Tell  me  how  it  all  happened." 

"It  is  too  like  the  first  chapter  of  a  penny  novelette. 
I  was  a  nice  clean  girl — a  jolly  girl,  everybody  said, — 
without  a  nasty  thought, — or  a  thought  to  trouble  her. 
Plenty  of  money.  I  mean,  more  than  enough  of  my  own 
to  rub  along  all  right  by  myself.  .  .  .  They  married 
me  to  a  rich  man.  And  it  was  torment,  torture,  from  the 
very  first  day.  How  shall  I  say  it — not  in  novelese?  He 
could  not  be  the  husband  that  a  young  girl  should  expect. 
His  life  was  over;  mine  was  beginning.  His  notion  of  a 
wife.  ...  He  ought  not  to  have  married  at  all.  .  .  . 
Well " 

She  paused;  and  Lenny  saw  dimly  that  she  had  turned 
in  her  chair  and  picked  up  something  from  a  side  table. 
Then  she  made  movements  with  both  hands.  Memory 
assisted  him  to  guess  that  she  had  taken  some  of  those 
violets  out  of  the  big  bowl,  and  was  smelling  them  or  roll- 
ing them  between  her  palms. 

"Well,  it  just  meant  that  my  heart  was  crushed,  and 
torn  to  pieces,  like  this." 

Lenny,  bending  towards  her,  spoke  very  gently  and 
soothingly. 

"Poor  little  girl." 

Mrs.  Fletcher  spoke  coldly  and  abruptly. 

"Turn  on  the  light,  please.  .  .  .  You'll  find  the 
switch  close  to  the  door." 

Lenny  obeyed  her,  and  the  electric  light  blazing  forth 
swept  all  the  shadows  out  of  the  room. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  suppose  there's  anything  to  be 
ashamed  of,   Mr.   Calcraft." 

As  he  came  back  to  the  hearth-rug,  he  was  blinking  fool- 

110 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

ishly.  But  he  thought  that,  on  the  whole,  it  was  rather 
fine  of  her.  She  wished  him  to  see  the  look  in  her  eyes; 
she  would  show  him  her  face  with  the  full  light  upon  it: 
he  must  not  imagine  that  this  was  a  confidence  of  the  dark, 

"No,"  she  said  firmly,  "it  was  a  stiff  course;  but  I  ran 
straight.  I  kept  my  bargain — all  that  the  Church  tells 
one — to  the  letter." 

She  held  her  head  high,  and  he  fancied  that  the  look 
in  her  eyes  now  suggested  quite  the  finest  sort  of  pride. 

"But  to  generalize" — and  she  spoke  lightly  again.  "Why 
aren't  these  things  prevented  in  our  class.  They  don't 
happen  in  the  humbler  walks  of  life.  Poor  girls  aren't  kept 
in  ignorance.  They  know  all  about  the  pitfalls — their 
mothers  tell  them.  However  they  act,  they  don't  act 
blindfold.  But  with  us — among  people  who  pretend  to 
be  educated,  cultivated,  intelligent — there's  a  horrible  con- 
spiracy of  silence  with  regard  to  all  that's  essential  for  a 
girl  to  know,  to  understand  thoroughly,  before  she  runs 
the  tremendous  risks  of  matrimony.  And  I  mean,  in  re- 
gard to  the  love  matches,  almost  as  much  as  to  the  mar- 
riages of  convenience.  Our  girls  are  as  ignorant  of  what 
they  are  trying  to  obtain  as  of  what  they  are  renouncing. 
Not  one  in  a  thousand  is  capable  of  making  a  rational 
choice." 

"No,  I  agree  with  you  there  completely." 

"If  ever  I  marry  again — and  I  don't  think  I  ever  shall — 
I  shall  choose  rationally.  I  shan't  shilly-shally — or  miss  the 
chance  of  happiness  because  of  any  ridiculous  conventions. 
I  shan't  even  wait  for  leap  year.  ...  I  shall  boldly 
propose  to  the  man,  if  I  think  I  have  found  him.  I  shall 
say,  'I  like  you,  and  you  seem  to  like  me.  I  have  so  much 
per  annum,  and  I  understand  you  have  so  much.  Now 
can't  we  make  a  couple  for  whom  there  ought  to  be  a  fair 
prospect?'    And  if  the  man  said  No,  I  shouldn't  bear  any 

111 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

malice.  And  if  he  said  Yes,  and  I  discovered  that  I'd  made 
a  mistake,  well,  I  should  only  have  myself  to  thank  for  it. 
I  shouldn't  feel  the  added  pain  of  thinking  every  minute 
of  the  day  that  those  who  ought  to  have  protected  me  had 
betrayed  me."  She  picked  up  another  little  cluster  of  the 
violets,  inhaled  their  perfume,  and  laughed  softly.  "Mr. 
Calcraft,  how  do  my  advanced  views  strike  you?" 

"They  strike  me  as  enormously  interesting.  Please  go 
on. 

But  just  then  there  came  a  dull  reverberation  as  of  dis- 
tant thunder.  It  was  the  hotel  gong  warning  inmates  to 
dress  for  dinner. 

Lenny  looked  at  the  Sevres  clock.  Good  gracious!  He 
had  been  here  two  hours.  He  hurriedly  prepared  to  take 
leave. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Calcraft.  It  was  kind  of  you  to 
come.    You'll  come  again,  won't  you?" 

She  had  risen  to  shake  hands.  She  was  looking  at  him 
very  frankly,  and  her  blue  eyes  seemed  to  be  searching  for 
some  mute  answer  to  a  doubt,  or  instinctive  confirmation 
of  a  wish.  It  was  the  inquiry  that  he  had  seen  before,  but 
now  greatly  intensified. 

"I  shall  love  to  come  again.  But  really  I  must  apologize 
for  paying  you  such  a  lengthy  visitation." 

"Oh,  don't!"  And  she  laughed  and  shivered.  "Visita- 
tion !  It  is  cruelty  to  words  to  use  that  one — it  is  so  tired ; 
it  has  been  worked  to  death." 

"Yes,  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  something  more 
original;"  and,  as  he  took  her  hand  in  his,  he  also  was 
laughing. 

She  looked  at  him  more  intently  still,  anxiously. 

"Well,  it  is  of  importance  in  these  circumstances — be- 
cause, with  a  new  acquaintance,  a  commonplace  phrase 
frightens  one.    You  are  a  little  different  from  other  people, 

112 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

aren't  you?  .  .  .  You  know,  I  shouldn't  have  talked 
to  everybody  as  I  talked  to  you." 

"You  have  honoured  me — and  I  feel  the  honour." 

She  had  allowed  her  hand  to  rest  in  his,  and,  while 
speaking  now,  he  exerted  the  faintest  possible  pressure  or 
retaining  force.  She  did  not  withdraw  the  hand;  but  in- 
stantaneously it  seemed  to  become  very  limp  and  very  small, 
so  that  it  slid  away  and  he  let  it  go. 

"You  came  to  me,  Mr.  Calcraft,  wearing  a  mantle  that 
I  admired  more  than  I  can  say. — I  mean,  I  had  been  lis- 
tening to  the  praises  of  your  friends.  Miss  Workman  had 
given  such  testimonials — such  absolute  guarantees  that  you 
were  one  of  the  elect.     .     .     .     Good-night." 

He  went  away  carrying  something  of  her  atmosphere 
with  him — an  intermittent  pulsation,  a  vaguely  disturbing 
note  of  interrogation,  a  faint  perfume  of  those  Parma  vio- 
lets, seemed  to  linger  with  some  persistence.  There  was  a 
certain  charm  about  her;  but  it  occurred  to  him  that  in 
spite  of  the  healthy  plumpness,  the  delicate  cleanness  of 
complexion,  and  the  firm  tone  of  voice,  she  belonged  to  the 
neurotic  type  of  women.  And  he  reflected,  moreover,  that 
a  considerable  egoism  was  indicated  by  such  a  lot  of  talk 
about  herself. 

He  did  not  see  her  again  at  the  hotel.  She  gave  a  tea- 
party,  but  he  was  not  able  to  attend  it.  Then  some  ne- 
cessity or  inclination  obliged  her  to  leave  Westchurch. 
Miss  Workman  told  him  of  the  imminent  departure. 

"You'll  go  to  the  station  and  see  her  off,  won't  you? 
She'll  be  touched  by  it." 

"I  will,  if  I  am  able." 

And  he  was  able.  He  went  to  the  station,  and  brought 
a  pretty  bouquet  of  flowers  for  her. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Fletcher. 

113 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

He  had  presented  his  bouquet  at  the  door  of  the  car- 
riage, where  she  stood  surrounded  by  her  Westchurch 
friends.  The  little  group  broke  up — Miss  Workman  and 
the  others  drawing  away  to  let  him  speak  freely  to  her. 

"Thank  you,"  she  repeated.  She  had  given  the  bouquet 
to  her  maid,  and  again  she  was  looking  at  him  with  that 
searching  question  in  her  blue  eyes.  "But  are  you  really 
of  the  elect,  or  are  you  after  all  a  little  like  other  people? 
Look!"  And  she  pointed  to  bunches  or  bouquets  of  flow- 
ers on  the  seat  of  the  carriage.  "From  the  hotel  proprietor! 
From  the  clergyman!    From  the  doctor!" 

She  wore  an  astrachan  jacket,  and  an  astrachan  toque 
that  made  her  fair  hair  seem  fairer — golden  against  the 
black;  and  in  one  of  her  breast  buttonholes  there  was  a 
small  bunch  of  Parma  violets — flowers  that  she  had  bought 
for  herself.  She  asked  Lenny  to  visit  her  when  he  next 
came  to  London,  and  he  scribbled  the  address  on  a  leaf  of 
his  pocket-book. 

"That's  very  businesslike!  Only  it  robs  you  of  an  ex- 
cuse. I  should  be  glad  to  see  you  again — but  will  you 
really  come?" 

"Yes,  I  shall  be  charmed  to  do  so." 

"Is  that  a  promise,  or  another  stereotyped  phrase?" 

"It  is  a  promise  that  I  make  to  myself,  not  to  you." 

"Oh,  that's  much  prettier;"  and  she  laughed. 

But  he  did  not  intend  to  keep  the  promise. 


XIII 

IT  was  in  the  spring  of  another  year,  and  old  Calcraft's 
tongue,  the  rough  side  and  the  soft  side  of  it,  was 
passive   for  ever. 

Lenny  would  not  believe  it,  when  they  came  down  to  the 
library  and  told  him  that  all  was  over.  He  rushed  up- 
stairs to  his  father's  room;  but  one  glance  at  the  inani- 
mate face  was  sufficient.  Dr.  Searle  drew  him  out  of 
the  room,  supported  him  downstairs,  and  re-established  him 
in  the  library.  His  limbs  were  shaking,  his  lips  twitched, 
his  teeth  chattered — it  was  as  if  he  had  been  exposed  to 
insupportably  cold  air,  as  if  an  arctic  breath  had  issued 
from  that  frigid  mask  and  frozen  him. 

He  sank  into  an  armchair,  and  sat  huddled,  crouching, 
gasping,  with  hands  that  dangled  loosely  between  his  knees. 

"There,"  said  Dr.  Searle,  "take  it  as  easy  as  you  can. 
I  will  attend  to  everything.     I  mean,  don't  give  a  thought 

to  the  necessary  arrangements 

That's  right,  Mary.    Down  with  them." 

Already  the  servants  were  pulling  down  blinds  in  all 
the  rooms. 

It  was  a  bright  April  morning;  the  whole  sea-front  gay 
and  vivid  in  the  sunshine.  All  could  see  the  signal  of  woe. 
As  the  blinds  came  down,  it  was  as  if  the  house  had  closed 
its  eyes  and  become  stiff  and  blank  beside  the  live  houses. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  shadow  had  deepened  to  a 
blackness  as  of  night.     He  felt   dazed,   crushed,   broken, 

115 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

beneath  the  shock  of  his  calamity;  but  now  and  then  he 
was  shaken  by  reflex  unthinking  spasms  of  grief.  And 
these  exhausted  him  so  completely  that  he  began  to  doze 
towards  the  end  of  the  long  silent  day.  Servants  had 
brought  him  food  from  time  to  time,  and  he  had  eaten;  but 
he  had  not  smoked,  or  even  noticed  that  he  was  not  smok- 
ing. Then  servants  came  to  ask  if  he  wanted  anything 
more,  and  he  said  "No."  Then  they  asked  if  they  might 
go  to  bed,  and  he  said  "Yes." 

The  knowledge  that  he  was  quite  alone  now,  that  all 
the  life  of  the  house  had  ceased,  seemed  to  rouse  him,  and 
to  wake  him.  And  now  for  the  first  time  memories  came 
pouring  into  his  mind.  The  memory  of  sounds  especially 
distressed  him,  and  more  than  all  others,  the  sounds  that 
his  father  used  to  make — the  cough,  the  shuffling  footstep, 
the  voice  itself  when  the  bedroom  door  was  opened  by  the 
nurse.  Habit  had  made  his  ear  quick  to  catch  such  sounds, 
however  faint.  He  moved  his  chair  nearer  to  the  fire,  and 
looked  round  the  empty  room.  It  was  here  in  this  library 
that  he  had  sat  on  so  many  nights  of  late,  not  reading,  not 
even  smoking,  just  waiting.  At  any  moment  he  might  be 
wanted — to  stand  by  the  bedside  during  a  prolonged  at- 
tack of  the  devastating  cough,  to  telephone  to  the  chemist 
for  another  oxygen  cylinder,  to  dash  off  in  a  cab  and  bring 
Dr.  Searle. 

And  now  there  could  be  no  sound  to  disturb  him;  there 
would  be  nothing  but  this  appalling,  freezing  silence. 

He  turned  his  head,  and  for  a  little  while  watched  the 
bookcases  and  wall  behind  which  the  staircase  led  upwards 
to  the  landing  and  the  closed  door.  What  if  the  dead 
man  should  appear  to  him?  [The  idea  came  as  a  hope 
rather  than  a  fear.  He  moved  his  lips  and  whispered 
"Father" — and  he  repeated  the  word.  In  imagination  he 
could   hear   the   slow   tread   on   the   stairs;   could   see   his 

116 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

father  enter  the  room,  and  slowly  shuffle  towards  him,  look- 
ing exactly  as  he  had  looked  during  these  last  months.  But 
then  a  cold  wave  of  horror  broke  the  image.  What  if  his 
father  should  appear  to  him  as  he  was  now — with  the  ter- 
rible expressionless  mask,  the  shut  eyes,  and  the  sunken 
mouth  ? 

He  made  up  the  fire,  and  presently  it  blazed  and  roared, 
while  he  sat  shivering  before  it.  He  could  not  go  upstairs 
to  his  own  room.  He  could  not  face  the  closed  door,  and 
that  central  zone  of  silence. 

The  housemaid  coming  to  do  the  library  next  morning 
was  startled  to  find  the  fire  alight,  and  more  startled  still 
to  see  Mr.  Leonard  asleep  on  the  sofa.  He  had  fetched 
rugs  from  the  hall,  and  spent  the  night  there. 

In  these  sad  days  between  the  death  and  the  funeral, 
all  things  seemed  vague  and  dreamlike  to  Lenny.  Very 
little  thought  was  possible;  but  there  were  intervals  of 
true  feeling  and  understanding.  The  extent  of  his  grief 
submerged  him.  It  burst  upon  him  with  hysterical  storms, 
and  flowed  high  above  his  head.  Then  it  seemed  that  he 
came,  or  was  dragged,  to  the  surface;  and  for  a  little  while 
he  was  able  to  think  in  some  sort  of  reasoning  fashion, 
instead  of  emptily  brooding,  after  the  manner  of  a  sorrow- 
ing dog  who  has  lost  his  master.  And  the  intervals  of 
thought  grew  longer,  and  the  thought  became  clearer.  Each 
time  that  one  of  them  occurred,  the  sense  of  reality  was  re- 
stored to  him  in  greater  completeness.  But  he  could  ex- 
ercise no  control  over  the  thoughts  themselves;  they  came 
and  they  went.  One  moment  he  would  be  thinking  of  his 
father,  and  the  next  moment  he  thought  of  what  was  going 
on  outside  the  darkened  house.  Then  he  would  cross  the 
room  without  intending  to  do  so,  and  peep  from  behind  the 
blinds.     Once  he  stood  for  a  considerable  time,  cautiously 

117 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

looking  out  at  the  sunlight  and  the  movement.  Westchurch 
was  excited  to-day.  A  cruiser  was  lying  at  anchor- — little 
boats  were  going  to  and  fro.  An  unusual  number  of  people 
had  gathered  on  the  parade.  It  was  almost  like  Regatta 
day. 

Then  again,  in  a  moment,  he  was  torn  by  a  swift  com- 
prehensive survey  of  his  loss.  Never  again  would  his  father 
see  the  bright  and  gaily  thronged  parade;  never  share  in 
the  sunshine;  never  feel  the  air  as  he  slowly  rolled  in 
the  Bath-chair;  never,  oh  never,  free  the  bear.  And  the 
grief  was  intensely,  torturingly  real.  He  thought  of  all 
that  he  had  done  for  his  father,  and  it  seemed  to  him  so 
little,  so  miserably  little.  Yet  the  slight  duties  had  seemed 
much  when  he  performed  them.  Now  for  several  moments 
he  was  filled  with  remorse  that  they  had  not  been  more. 

And  then  inexplicably,  illogically,  without  connecting 
link,  came  a  vague  idea  of  relief  at  the  freedom  from  un- 
ceasing cares.  With  it  there  soon  mingled  a  strange  sense 
of  importance,  and  some  rapidly  forming  notions  as  to  how 
he  would  use  his  freedom.  The  money  would  make  him 
extraordinarily  free — the  whole  world  open  to  him.  Per- 
haps this  was  conveyed  in  mental  pictures  rather  than  in 
definite  thoughts.  Scenes  and  places  flashed  into  the  sphere 
of  consciousness,  now  dim,  now  vivid,  vanishing  and  giving 
place  to  more  pictures;  no  sequence;  no  arrangement  be- 
yond the  underlying  thread  of  logic  that  bound  the  whole 
picture  gallery  together— the  possibilities  of  changing,  mov- 
ing, palpitating  life,  given  to  him  by  his  father's  death. 

Dr.  Searle  was  doing  everything;  nevertheless  facts  de- 
manding personal  attention  sometimes  forcibly  dragged 
Lenny  to  the  surface.  There  were  letters  that  only  he 
could  answer.  Painfully  incongruous  problems  to  which  no 
one  else  held  the  key!    Almost  the  first  letter  that  Lenny 

118 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

found  himself  able  to  read  was  from  a  friend  of  his  in 
London.  Years  ago  this  friend  had  put  his  name  down  for 
a  London  club;  and  he  now  wrote  to  say  that  the  candidate 
would  almost  immediately  come  up  for  election,  and  that 
he  ought  to  do  a  little  canvassing.  Lenny  was  compelled 
to  reply  to  this. 

"Your  letter,"  he  wrote,  "has  come  when  I  am  in 
deep  trouble.  My  dear  father  passed  away  on  Monday 
night." 

Then  he  stopped  to  think.  Perhaps  it  might  be  wrong 
to  speak  of  his  father  to  this  man  who  never  knew  him. 
But  he  went  on,  the  pen  writing  words  as  if  without  assist- 
ance, and  he  found  unexpected  comfort  in  the  frank  ex- 
pression of  his  grief. 

"He  and  I  have  been  all  in  all  to  each  other,  living  alone 
in  this  quiet  little  place  since  my  mother's  death  thirteen 
years  ago.  You  will  understand  that  at  such  a  time  I  can 
do  nothing.  My  life  is  all  shaken  to  pieces.  In  the  future 
there  is  only  one  thing  certain  for  me."  The  pen  was 
writing  easily  and  rapidly.  "I  shall  travel  for  at  least  a 
year  or  two.  There  are  many  countries  that  I  have  long 
determined  to  visit.  They  all  lie  away  from  the  beaten 
track,  remote  from  civilization;  where,  as  the  saying  is,  the 
tourist  goes  with  his  life  in  his  hand,  and  is  at  once  reduced 
to  the  primitive  conditions  of  hunting  for  and  killing  his 
evening  meal.  In  other  words,  I  have  determined  to  go  to 
Nature  for  the  only  consolation  that  is  possible." 

He  was  surprised,  while  he  wrote,  to  discover  that  he 
had  this  definite  intention,  but  he  immediately  recognized 
it  as  unquestionably  there. 

"I  must  take  my  chance  at  the  club,  and  if  elected,  shall 
certainly  accept  the  membership.    With  many  thanks."  .  .  . 

Other  facts  that  one  could  not  escape  from  were  the 
tailor  who  made  black  clothes,  the  undertaker  who  required 

119 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

to  know  the  probable  number  of  mourners,  and  the  solicitor 
who  came  to  talk  business. 

Lenny  had  never  cared  for  the  solicitor;  but  this  Mr. 
Newall  had  long  been  his  father's  trusted  adviser,  and  when 
he  craved  for  an  interview,  it  could  not  be  refused.  He 
was  sandy,  bearded,  spectacled,  with  a  rather  dictatorial 
manner;  but  reputed  clever,  and  known  to  be  honest  and 
good-hearted. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Newall,  in  a  friendly  abrupt 
style.  "Money  matters,  money  matters — one  can't  get 
away  from  them,  whatever  one's  inclination." 

Then  he  gave  Lenny  a  brief  sketch  of  his  late  client's 
financial  circumstances.  He  mentioned  at  once  that  Lenny 
was  entitled  to  a  capital  sum  sufficient  to  bring  him  £500 
a  year.  "That,  as  of  course  you  know,  comes  to  you  under 
a  settlement.  But  I  see  you  do  know.  Well,  beyond  that, 
the  money  that  your  father  could  dispose  of  as  he  pleased 
amounts  roughly  to  £30,000.  And,  of  course,  the  lease  of 
this  house,  furniture,  personal  effects.  There  was,  so  far 
as  I  am  aware,  no  life  policy." 

Lenny  shuddered. 

"No  life  policy  as  far  as  you  are  aware,  either.  Well," 
said  Mr.  Newall  very  kindly,  "if  you  can  pull  yourself 
together,  it  will  really  be  wise,  and  I  think  will  do  you 
good.  What  is  it  that  the  King  in  Hamlet  says?  'Your 
father  lost  a  father;  and  his  father  too  before  him  lost 
another  father.'  That's  not  quite  the  quotation.  I 
forget  how  it  runs.  .  .  .  But  to  stick  to  business.  You 
may  rely  on  me  for  the  correctness  of  the  figures  I  have 
given  you.  The  management  of  things  has  been  in  my 
hands,  and  I  don't  think  your  father  ever  acted  without 
my  advice,  although  he  often  disregarded  it.  He  made 
good  investments  and  bad  investments,  but  you  may  take 
it  from  me   that  the  market  value — it's  all  personalty — 

120 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

stocks,  shares,  and  so  on — is  somewhere  very  near  £30,000 
— there  or  thereabouts." 

"I  haven't  given  a  thought  to  it,"  said  Lenny. 

"No,  I  dare  say  not.  But  I  have  just  told  you,  and 
you  can  take  that  as  the  position  of  affairs.  And  now," 
said  Mr.  Newall,  firmly  and  impressively,  "I  would  like 
to  have  a  few  words  with  you  about  your  father's  will." 

"But  isn't  that  rather  premature?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  You  know  all  that  rubbish  about 
waiting  till  the  funeral  is  over,  and  then  reading  the  will 
in  a  semicircle  of  becraped  relatives,  with  trays  of  sherry 
and  seed  cake  handy  at  their  elbows,  belongs  to  the  story 
books,  and  not  to  life.  In  this  case  there  are  good  reasons 
for  considering  matters  without  unnecessary  delay.  I  par- 
ticularly wanted  to  have  a  quiet  chat  with  you,  to  sound 
you — to  get  at  your  views  before  I  am  tackled  by  your  sis- 
ters and  your  brothers-in-law.  ...  Of  course  those 
two  gentlemen  will  come  here  with  their  mouths  very  wide 
open,  gaping  to  see  what  is  going  to  drop  into  them.  Well, 
nothing  is  going  to  drop  in.  They  and  your  sisters  are  left 
completely  in  the  cold.     You   take  everything." 

Lenny  said  the  solicitor  was  under  a  misapprehension. 
He  knew  that  his  father  in  his  latest  will  further  provided 
for  the  sisters.  The  solicitor  must  have  got  hold  of  a 
previous  will. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  the  solicitor  curtly.  "Your  father 
intended  to  make  such  a  will,  but  he  never  did.  He  was 
always  putting  it  off,  changing  his  mind  about  details.  I 
suppose  I  have  a  hundred  letters  from  him  in  the  office,  and 
at  least  a  dozen  drafts.     But  he  always  stopped  short." 

"But,"  said  Lenny,  "there  was  no  question  as  to  what 
he  wished.     He  told  me  so  himself." 

"My  dear  sir, — what  a  dead  man  wishes  is  not  of  much 
account  in  the  live  world." 

121 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Lenny  drew  himself  up,  and  puffed  out  his  cheeks.  Then 
recovering  his  composure,  he  spoke  with  considerable  dig- 
nity. "It  is  of  account  to  me,  Mr.  Newall,  and  I  shall 
consider  it  a  solemn  duty  to  give  substance  to  the 
wish." 

"You  will?"  said  Mr.  Newall,  looking  at  him  shrewdly. 
"Well,  it's  uncommonly  good  of  you,  if  you  do,  and  I, 
for  one,  shall  think  that  you  will  be  doing  a  thundering 
good  thing.  But  I  must,  don't  you  know" — and  in  spite  of 
the  solemnity  of  the  occasion,  Mr.  Newall  smiled  face- 
tiously— "I  must  warn  you  that  what  you  say  now  and 
during  the  next  few  days  will  be  used  against  you.  And 
a  further  warning  I  may  give — from  my  own  experience, 
generous  intentions  such  as  you  have  expressed  are  usually 
warmer,  stronger,  altogether  bigger  than  they  might  be 
if  people  waited  for  a  little  reflection  before  they  spoke." 

But  Lenny  was  solid  as  to  his  intentions.  He  would 
carry  them  out  in  due  course.  It  should  be  share  and 
share  alike  all  round.  The  solicitor,  who  was  nothing  if 
not  businesslike,  suggested  that  this  was  too  big  a  way  of 
doing  things.  The  ladies  had  received  their  lumps  many 
years  ago,  and  had  enjoyed  the  annual  interest  therefrom 
ever  since.  Whereas  Lenny  himself  would  only  get  his 
lump  now,  with  no  interest.  He  thought  that  if  Lenny 
calculated  the  amount  of  interest  that  had  accrued  in 
each  case  and  deducted  it  from  the  third  part,  giving  him- 
self the  benefit  of  these  deductions,  it  would  be  doing 
handsomely — no — handsomely  was  not  the  word — he  would 
be  doing  magnificently — more  than  one  man  in  a  million 
would  do. 

Lenny,  however,  was  obdurately  firm.  What  the  solici- 
tor considered  extravagant  generosity,  appeared  to  him 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a  pious  duty. 

"Very  good,"  said  Mr.  Newall.  "I  shall  take  your  in- 
122 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

structions  later  on,  and  whatever  you  tell  me  to  do,  I'll 
do  like  a  bird." 

Then  the  interview  was  at  an  end,  and  Mr.  Newall 
withdrew. 

Lenny  sighed  wearily;  but,  curiously  enough,  what  the 
solicitor  prognosticated  proved  correct.  This  ordeal  had 
done  Lenny  good.  Somehow  it  had  dispersed  a  little  of 
the  crushed  sensations.  It  had  filled  him  with  a  new  no- 
tion of  power.  It  had  swung  him  out  of  vague  reveries 
into  the  realm  of  prompt  actions. 

The  two  sisters  and  one  of  the  husbands  had  arrived; 
and  the  other  husband  would  be  here  directly.  This  meant 
that  the  funeral  was  very  near.  These  people,  together 
with  an  old  bachelor  cousin,  had  taken  rooms  at  the  Es- 
planade Hotel,  but  they  came  in  and  out  at  No.  I,  The 
Crescent  in  an  aimless  and  distressing  manner.  They  made 
too  much  noise  about  the  hall;  they  spoke  too  loudly  in 
the  dining-room;  they  were  incongruous,  worrying,  unwel- 
come. 

Lenny  had  a  sudden  difficulty  in  recalling  the  married 
names  of  Jane  and  Sarah.  Then  when  he  remembered  that 
one  was  Mrs.  Holway  and  the  other  Mrs.  Kent,  he  was 
temporarily  in  doubt  as  to  which  was  which.  They  both 
kissed  him,  and  one  held  his  hand  and  pressed  it  with  a 
semblance  of  affection;  but,  in  fact,  they  seemed  to  him 
not  real  sisters,  but  two  fussy  strangers — hard,  self -en- 
grossed, rather  vulgar  strangers.  It  was  too  long  since 
he  had  last  seen  them.  He  could  not  pick  up  the  thread  of 
old  kindness. 

Their  deterioration  of  intellect  and  their  loss  of  good 
manners  showed  itself  plainly  in  all  that  they  said  with 
regard  to  the  suddenness  of  their  bereavement. 

"Of  course/'  said  Mrs.  Holway — yes,  that  was  Sarah — 
9  123 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"we  were  prepared  for  it  some  time  or  other,  but  now, 
quite  without  warning — I  think,  Lenny,  you  might  have 
found  time  to  drop  one  warning  note;"  and  she  explained, 
or  implied,  that  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  her  father's 
death  could  not  possibly  have  occurred  at  a  more  unsea- 
sonable and  difficult  epoch.  It  appeared  that  she  was  in 
delicate  health,  about  to  be  a  mother,  and  obliged  to  con- 
sider her  condition  carefully.  This  journey,  according  to 
her  doctor  and  her  husband,  was  really  an  act  of  impru- 
dence.   However,  she  had  felt  that  she  could  not  stay  away. 

Then,  again,  Mr.  Holway  was  passing  through  a  state 
of  anxiety  at  his  business  house.  As  Lenny  knew,  he  was 
a  manufacturer  of  plated  goods  in  rather  a  small  way,  and 
Sarah  said  that  labour  troubles  which  larger  concerns  could 
easily  withstand  were  sometimes  disastrous  to  lesser  enter- 
prises. Nevertheless,  Holway  would  be  here  late  to-night, 
or  early  to-morrow  morning. 

"So,  you  see,  Lenny,  no  conjunction  of  affairs  could 
well  have  been  more  unlucky.  And,  oh,  the  food  at  this 
hotel  of  yours!  It  really  is  shamefully  bad.  I  don't  mind 
it  so  much  for  myself,  although  I  ought,  of  course,  to  be 
getting  the  fullest  nourishment  just  now;  but  I  really  am 
afraid  of  it  for  him.  If  he  turns  up  this  afternoon,  couldn't 
you  arrange  for  him  to  dine  here  with  you?" 

Lenny  said  he  feared  that  would  be  impossible. 

"Why?"  asked  Sarah.  "I  should  have  thought  that  a 
little  dinner  here  for  you  four  men — of  course  you  could 
not  ask  my  husband  without  having  Charles  Kent  and  Mr. 
Burleigh  also — would  have  been  rather  nice  for  you  all. 
It  would  have  cheered  you  all  up  a  bit." 

Jane  Kent,  the  other  sister,  had  suffered  a  misfortune 
which  in  her  mind,  apparently,  altogether  overshadowed 
the  greater  but  more  natural  bereavement.  She  had  lost 
her  principal  trunk  on  the  journey,  and  she  talked  of  noth- 

124 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

ing  else.  The  lost  box  contained,  besides  her  blackest 
dresses,  a  hundred  necessary  and  desirable  objects.  She  sent 
her  husband  to  the  railway  station  six  times  during  the  day 
— sent  him  forth  again  every  time  that  he  reappeared. 

"Go  and  telegraph  to  the  traffic  manager." 

"I  have  done  so,"  said  Charles. 

"Then  telegraph  to  the  station  master  at  Woodford  Junc- 
tion." 

"I  saw  it,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  Charles  had  disappeared. 
"I  saw  it  myself  on  the  platform  at  Woodford."  And  she 
closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment.  "I  saw  the  three  initials 
distinctly.     I  could  not  be  mistaken." 

Then  after  a  time  Charles  returned,  and  whispered  dole- 
fully. 

"No  news." 

"Charles,"  said  Mrs.  Kent  with  great  energy,  "they 
must  find  it.  You  take  it  too  coolly.  Make  a  row  about 
it.  Show  them  that  you  will  not  put  up  with  their  non- 
sense. The  thing  is  monstrous;  they  must  find  it.  Tell 
them  I  saw  it  on  the  platform  at  Woodford,"  and  once 
more  she  shut  her  eyes.  "All  by  itself.  Stuck  up  on  end — 
the  three  initials  absolutely  plain." 

It  had  come  to  be  the  day  of  the  funeral.  Bright  and  gay. 
Another  perfect  April  morning;  the  last  snow  on  the  hills 
melting,  the  first  flowers  in  the  valley  budding.  And  that 
new  sense  of  importance  was  strong  upon  Lenny — dressed 
in  his  faultless  black,  ushered  by  the  obsequious  mutes — 
as  he  entered  the  first  of  the  mourning  coaches  and  slowly 
moved  off  behind  the  car  with  the  masses  of  white  wreaths 
hiding  the  coffin. 

Mr.  Holway,  Sarah's  second  husband,  sat  by  him;  but 
he  was  nobody,  less  than  nobody.  Lenny  had  chosen  him 
for  companion,  thinking  that  his  presence  would  be  more 

125 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

sufferable  than  that  of  the  box-hunting  brother-in-law, 
Charles  Kent — and  it  seemed  almost  too  lordly  and  kinglike 
to  ride  in  a  coach  quite  by  himself,  though  the  mutes  would 
have  encouraged  him  to  this  pomp.  And  now,  as  the 
coach  with  occasional  stoppings  and  jerkings  rolled  away 
from  the  sunlit  steps,  Lenny  experienced  a  certain  satis- 
faction in  the  companionship  of  Mr.  Holway. 

He  was  a  short,  heavily  built  man,  of  about  fifty — grey- 
haired,  reddish-faced,  and  square  of  head.  He  spoke  in  the 
Midland  accent  that  Lenny  remembered  as  peculiar  to 
the  farmers  and  yeomen  of  the  country  round  his  old  home. 
The  tradespeople  of  the  towns  had  all  dropped  the  accent, 
and  learnt  to  clip  their  words  after  the  cockney  fashion. 
Altogether,  Mr.  Holway  produced  the  conviction  that  one 
had  to  deal  with  a  perfectly  honest,  upright,  commonplace 
person,  whose  businesslike  self-reliance  was  tempered  by 
innate  good  nature.  His  hands  were  broad  and  rough 
and  stubby,  like  the  hands  of  a  carpenter  or  mechanic; 
and  Lenny,  glancing  at  them,  observed  the  preposterous 
discrepancy  of  size  exhibited  by  the  thin,  neatly  folded  black 
kid  gloves.  Mr.  Holway,  as  yet,  had  not  attempted  to  put 
on  the  gloves,  and  Lenny  hoped  that  he  would  not  make 
the  attempt. 

There  were  crowds  of  people  at  the  corner  of  the  Cres- 
cent, and  all  along  the  sea-front  till  the  small  black  proces- 
sion turned  towards  the  railway  bridge.  Cabmen  on  the 
rank  took  off  their  hats;  boys  with  butchers'  carts  pulled 
back  their  ponies,  and  kept  at  a  respectful  distance;  and  a 
policeman  peremptorily  stopped  a  greengrocer's  van,  and 
would  not  allow  it  to  pass.  Eyes  staring,  and  it  must  be 
confessed,  voices  talking  much  too  freely.  Lenny  heard  and 
did  not  wish  to  hear. 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Why,  old  Mr.  Calcraft  from  No.  I." 
126 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"What!    I  thought  they  had  called  for  him  more  than  a 

year  ago." "Look  at  the  flowers!    Look  at  the 

flowers.     Look  at  the  flowers."     ......     "Why 

they've  dressed  up  the  old  bloke  like  a  Jack  in  the  Green." 

And  some  talk  inside  the  coach.  Mr.  Holway  asked  his 
question  with  blunt  honesty.  "Is  there  anything  coming 
our  way?     I  suppose  not.     We  neither  of  us  expected  it." 

Then  Lenny  in  carefully  considered  words  explained 
that  anything  that  does  come  will  be  through  his  generosity. 
His  father  had  wished  something  to  come,  but  had  failed 
to  secure  his  wish.  However,  Lenny  means  to  carry  out 
the  wish  as  far  as  lies  in  his  power.  It  will  certainly  be 
something  for  each  of  the  sisters — something  handsome — 
something  as  big  as  what  is  coming  to  himself. 

Mr.  Holway  had  taken  off  his  black  hat,  and  wiped  his 
forehead.  "Well,  we  shall  be  very  much  beholden  to  you." 
And  he  drew  in  his  breath,  and  seemed  to  swallow.  "I'm 
not  the  sort  that  asks  favours  of  other  people,  and  I've 
stood  on  my  own  legs  so  far,  without  any  outside  props; 
but  you  know  your  sister — well,  she's  j'our  sister — a  large 
family,  and  not  got  to  the  end  of  it  yet,  so  it  seems.  She'll 
be  grateful — no  question  about  that — and  I  shall  be  grate- 
ful for  her  sake.  But  we  ought  not  to  be  talking  like  this. 
I  was  forgetting  the  occasion.  Your  poor  father — well,  I 
never  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  him." 

They  had  got  to  the  gate  of  the  cemetery,  and  no  more 
talk  was  audible  inside  or  outside  the  coach. 

The  last  rites  had  been  performed;  the  mourners  had 
come  back  to  the  house.  The  dining-room  and  hall  seemed 
full  of  people. 

Somebody  suggested  that  the  blinds  might  now  be  pulled 
up.    But  Lenny  would  not  allow  this. 

Dr.  Searle  and  Mr.  Newall  were  eating  cake  and  drink- 

127 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

ing  wine.  Mary,  without  instructions,  guided  by  conven- 
tional impulses,  had  put  out  cake-dishes,  decanters,  and 
many  wine-glasses.  It  was  the  terrible  assembly  of  black- 
garbed  relatives  and  friends  that  tradition  has  ordained  for 
these  occasions;  it  was  like  a  well-set  scene  in  a  drama 
of  typical  middle-class  life.  Only  one  thing  was  wanting 
to  complete  the  resemblance,  and  all  at  once  Mrs.  Holway 
asked  for  what  was  missing. 

"I  suppose  now,"  she  said,  in  a  hard  and  rather  hostile 
tone,  "that  somebody  will  have  the  kindness  to  read  the 
will  to  us." 

"No,  no,"  said  Lenny,  shaking  his  head  sadly. 

But  Mrs.  Holway  was  not  going  to  be  put  ofr  with  nods 
and  negatives.  If  there  was  any  mystery,  she  desired  to 
get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  Coming  close  to  her  brother,  she 
whispered   excitedly: 

"Does  this  mean  that  we  are  cut  out?  Yes.  I  suppose 
that's  it. — Oh,  I  was  quite  prepared  for  it.  That's  it.  You 
have  feathered  your  nest,  Lenny,  and  taken  care  that  no- 
body else  should  be  remembered." 

Holway  put  his  stubby  hand  on  Sarah's  arm  and  forcibly 
drew  her  away.  Then  he  talked  to  her  in  a  corner  of  the 
room,  and  caused  an  immediate  change  of  voice  and  de- 
meanour. 

"Lenny,  Lenny!"  She  had  come  hurrying  back,  and 
she  kissed  her  brother  with  exuberant  love.  "Lenny!  What 
a  wretch  I  was  to  say  such  things.  Lenny!  How  can  I 
thank  you?  But  I  might  have  trusted  you.  You  are  my 
own  brother.  Blood  is  thicker  than  water.  But  I  do  say 
God  bless  you — and  my  children's  blessings  for  this  noble 
deed." 

She  kissed  him  again,  and  for  the  first  time  Lenny  saw 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"And  you  are  doing  it  for  Jane  too!  May  I  tell  her? 
128 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

May  I  relieve  her  mind  by  the  knowledge  of  your  good- 
ness?   Oh,  may  I  tell  her  without  delay?" 

Lenny  gave  her  permission  to  tell  Jane,  and  in  a  moment 
Jane  also  was  thanking  him  for  his  munificence. 

"Oh,  Lenny,  Lenny!  How  can  we  ever  thank  you  suf- 
ficiently?" 

But  just  then  Charles  Kent  rushed  into  the  room.  He 
had  disappeared  immediately  after  the  ceremony  at  the 
grave-side,  and  now  he  came  back  hot,  breathless,  and 
unbecomingly  noisy. 

"Jane!"  he  called  loudly,  "it's  come!" 

"No?" 

"Yes — it  arrived  directly  after  we  left  the  hotel." 

"Where  is  it  now?" 

"In  the  hall  of  the  hotel." 

"Did  you  see  it  yourself?" 

"Yes,  with  my  own  eyes." 

She  hurried  off  with  him,  talking  volubly. 

"I  must  find  out  if  it  is  intact.  They  may  have  rifled 
it.  No  receipt  must  be  signed  until  we  have  ascertained 
if  it  is  intact  and  uninjured." 

She  left  the  house  without  saying  good-bye  to  anybody. 
Everything  seemed  to  have  been  driven  out  of  her  mind 
by  her  excitement  and  pleasure  at  the  recovery  of  the  lost 
box. 

Very  soon  the  other  mourners  also  went  away,  and  Lenny 
was  left  alone  with  his  household. 

"Now  shall  I  pull  up  the  blinds,  sir?"  asked  Mary. 

"No,"  said  Lenny,  "wait  till  to-morrow  morning." 


XIV 


THE  blinds  were  up,  the  windows  were  open ;  air  and 
sunlight  poured  into  the  house.  The  shadow  had 
gone. 

And  the  grief  gone  with  it?  No,  assuredly  not.  But 
he  was  astounded  by  the  ease  of  mind  that  he  was  enjoy- 
ing. He  sat  at  breakfast  eating  heartily,  feeling  calmly 
contented,  thinking  steadily  of  the  various  affairs  that  called 
for  attention,  and  stoutly  determining  to  polish  off  all  this 
new  work  as  rapidly  as  possible. 

There  was  plenty  to  do,  plenty  to  occupy  his  thoughts; 
and  thus,  during  long  hours,  the  grief  could  be  forgotten. 
But  he  often  wondered  afterwards  at  the  temporary  dis- 
appearance of  the  sorrowful  mood,  and  almost  regretted 
as  disloyalty  the  fact  that  he  had  let  it  slip  away  from  him. 

Truly  it  seemed  as  though  the  absence  of  the  outward 
stimulus  destroyed  the  inward  emotion.  It  was  the  sight 
of  his  father,  the  sound  of  the  weak  voice,  the  touch  of 
the  shaky  hand,  that  had  kept  the  emotions  active.  After 
death,  there  was  still  the  terrible  presence  lying  mute  be- 
hind the  closed  door — now  there  was  nothing. 

People  were  being  excessively  kind  to  him,  and  after  a 
little  while  he  found  that  he  could  see  them  without  dis- 
comfort. They  all  advised  him  not  to  give  way  to  grief, 
to  rouse  himself,  to  take  his  part  in  life.  But  no  one  said 
all  this  so  forcibly  as  Dr.  Searle. 

"Now  look  here,  Lenny,"  said  the  doctor.  "You  ought 
to  understand  that  a  new  chapter  is  beginning.  All  that 
old  chapter  is  over  and  done  with,  and  it's  no  good  looking 

130 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

back  on  it.  Don't  be  offended  with  me,  but  it's  my  duty 
to  speak  out.  The  time  has  come  for  you  to  take  care 
of  yourself.  You  have  been  taking  care  of  someone  else 
for  so  long  that  you  may  not  see  the  necessity.  It  is  im- 
perative that  you  should  now  spare  yourself." 

"I  have  a  good  deal  to  do  still — and  chiefly  for  others." 

"Well,  cut  it  short,  and  take  it  easy  as  soon  as  possible, 
or  we  shall  have  you  breaking  down,  and  breaking  down 
badly.  I  know  what  the  strain  of  all  these  years  has  been. 
Well,  you  have  finished  the  job,  and  finished  it  nobly.  Now 
give  yourself  a  chance." 

"I  was  never  conscious  of  any  strain." 

"No.  But  /  saw  it  plainly  enough.  Most  people  would 
have  broken  down  under  it.  It  is  the  sort  of  thing  that 
drives  weaklings  into  the  madhouse.  We  doctors  see  too 
much  of  it.  It  ought  not  to  be  allowed — young,  healthy 
people  subordinating  themselves,  sacrificing  themselves  to 
permanent  invalids.  Invalids  are  always  tyrants,  and  as 
they  grow  older  they  grow  more  merciless." 

Lenny  held  up  his  hand,  and  protested  against  what 
seemed  a  cruel  aspersion. 

"Very  good,  Lenny;  I  will  say  no  more.  And  you  can 
take  all  I  have  said  as  reference  to  patent  facts  that  come 
under  my  observation.  You  are  a  strong  man,  and  you 
have  been  able  to  support  what  cripples  and  destroys  many 
spinster  daughters  and  hard-up  nieces  who  are  made  to  act 
as  unpaid  nurses  year  in  and  year  out.  I  tell  you,  their 
bodily  health  goes,  their  mental  health  goes.  I've  seen  it 
again  and  again.  They  wind  up  bloodless,  nerveless,  or 
idiotic." 

The  doctor  had  spoken  very  impressively,  and  Lenny  for 
a  little  while  sat  looking  at  the  library  carpet.  Then  he 
raised  his  eyes,  and  made  a  quite  unexpected  confession. 

"It's  good  of  you,   Searle,  to  take  so  much   interest  in 

131 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

me.  Indeed,  I  know  what  a  friend  you  are.  Well,  just 
now,  when  I  said  that  I  had  never  felt  the  strain — that 
was  not  quite  correct.    I  did  feel  it  off  and  on." 

"Of  course  you  did." 

"Once  I  was  a  little  anxious  about  myself.  I  was 
sleeping  badly,  and  I  had  dull  feelings  in  the  head — not 
exactly  headaches,   but   a   sort  of  oppression." 

"Of  course.    Just  so.    Just  what  I  should  have  guessed." 

"It  didn't  amount  to  anything,  but  it  did  make  me 
rather  nervous,  and  I  didn't  want  to  bother  you — so, 
one  time  when  I  was  up  in  London,  I  consulted  a  spe- 
cialist." 

"What  specialist?"  asked  Searle  sharply.     "Who?" 

"A  man  called  Ashford  in  Brook  Street.  Somebody  told 
me  that  he  was  very  clever." 

"Oh,  yes,  he's  clever  enough.  But  not  the  only  clever 
doctor  in  London,  or  in  the  country  either."  Dr.  Searle 
for  a  moment  or  two  seemed  huffed.  "Well?  What  did 
the  talented  Ashford  give  you  in  exchange  for  your  two 
guineas  ?" 

"He  said  there  was  nothing  much  the  matter  with  me, 
but  I  seemed  a  little  run  down." 

"Ha!  Well,  I  hope  you  felt  you'd  got  your  money's 
worth."  Then  the  slight  huffiness  passed  off,  and  Dr. 
Searle  resumed  his  friendly,  familiar  manner.     "All  right." 

"It  was  simply  that  I  didn't  want  to  bother  you." 

"But  if  you'd  told  me  first,  I  could  have  sent  Ashford 
the  usual  preliminary  information.  Specialists  aren't  ma- 
gicians, you  know.  They  are  not  above  taking  any  assist- 
ance that  the  family  watch-dog  can  offer  them." 

"I've  always  had  supreme  confidence  in  you,  Searle. 
As  I  think  you  know." 

"Thank  you,  Lenny.  Well,  now,  as  I  said,  the  past  is 
all  over;  and  what  you  have  to  do  is  to  forget  it.     You 

132 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

ought  to  get  away  from  here.  You  want  change  of  air, 
change  of  scene.     You  want  to  make  a  new  start." 

Then  Lenny  told  the  doctor  what  he  had  already  told 
the  man  who  wrote  to  him  about  the  club  election.  He 
intended  to  go  away,  and  to  stay  away  for  at  least  a  year. 
He  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  to  travel;  to  seek  adven- 
ture. 

"Yes.  Excellent,"  said  Dr.  Searle.  "A  voyage  round 
the  world  is  the  very  thing  indicated." 

Lenny  often  recalled  the  gist  of  this  conversation.  In- 
deed, he  could  not  forget  the  seriousness  of  Searle's  air 
when  describing  the  dangerous  character  of  the  experiences 
through  which  he  had  passed.  And  the  more  he  thought 
of  the  doctor's  words,  the  more  he  felt  their  truth.  He 
had  mercifully  escaped  from  many  dangers.  His  consti- 
tution had  been  severely  tested.  Perhaps,  even  now,  he 
had  not  fully  recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  long-main- 
tained ordeal.  To  a  certain  extent,  some  of  Searle's  por- 
tentous words  haunted  him,  made  him  yearn  for  personal 
freedom,  for  absolute  peace. 

The  desire  for  rest  naturally  increased  his  resolution  to 
settle  all  business  matters  with  decisive  speed.  Newall, 
the  solicitor,  told  him  there  were  no  difficulties.  All  was 
plain  sailing  in  regard  to  his  succession. 

This  was  comforting.  But  even  though  the  solicitor 
might  do  his  work  promptly  and  effectively,  he  could  not 
relieve  the  client  of  all  business  cares.  There  were  so  many 
questions  that  he  could  not  decide  quite  alone.  He  was 
compelled  to  ask  for  instructions,  and  it  sometimes  seemed 
that,  in  spite  of  fair  promises,  Lenny  was  expected  to  do  a 
lot  of  the  work  himself. 

It  would  be  absurd  to  keep  this  large  house,  which  could 
be  of  no  use  to  a  man  wandering  about  the  globe;  and, 
indeed,  he  could  not  in  any  event  have  afforded  to  retain 

133 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

it.  The  lease  therefore  must  be  sold — perhaps  the  fur- 
niture too.  Or  the  furniture  might  be  stored  for  future 
use.  But  then  again,  it  would  be  scarcely  worth  while 
to  store  the  larger  pieces  of  furniture.  There  would  not 
be  room  for  them  in  any  house  that  he  would  be  likely 
to  take  later  on.  His  means  would  never  permit  him  to 
enjoy  even  a  fairly  large  house  again.  Then  there  were 
all  the  servants — what  could  be  done  with  them?  They 
must  be  paid  off  and  disbanded.  And  then  there  was  this 
tremendous  problem  of  the  share-and-share-alike  arrange- 
ment— the  realization  or  transference  of  the  immense 
amount  of  property  that  would  be  required  for  the  endow- 
ment of  Jane  and  Sarah. 

The  secret  of  Lenny's  magnanimous  scheme  had  leaked 
out  locally.  It  was  known  that  the  sisters  had  been  cut 
out  of  the  will,  and,  as  the  local  people  said,  Lenny  had 
reinstated  them.  Out  of  sheer  generosity,  he  was  dividing 
the  fortune  into  three,  when  he  might  have  taken  the 
lot;  and  as  this  was  truly  Lenny's  intention,  he  could  not 
contradict  the  rumour.  One  or  two  friends  had  attempted 
to  broach  the  subject  with  him,  and,  although  he  would 
not  of  course  talk  about  it,  he  was  tacitly  accepting  all  the 
fame  and  all  the  praise. 

Who  had  been  indiscreet  enough  to  let  out  the  secret? 
If  it  was  Mr.  Newall,  he  became  silent  thence  onward. 

Jane  and  Sarah  left  Westchurch  on  the  day  after  the 
funeral ;  so  they  scarcely  had  time  to  publish  it. 

But  the  publication  did  not  matter.  Lenny  could  be 
neither  embarrassed  nor  annoyed  by  it,  for  he  himself  had 
put  the  simple  fact  on  record. 

One  letter  of  condolence,  which  he  valued  more  than 
all  the  mass  of  correspondence  that  came  pouring  in,  was 
from  his  old  friend  George  Verinder.  George  wrote  with 
most  touching  sympathy.     He  had  heard  of  Mr.  Calcraft's 

134 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

death  by  the  merest  accident.  Happening  to  meet  Gerald 
Dryden  in  a  train  on  the  underground  railway,  he  had 
been  informed  of  Lenny's  sorrow.  In  the  letter  he  said 
charming  things,  as  well  as  kind  things.  And  he  concluded 
in  a  way  that  was  peculiarly  characteristic  of  his  own 
lofty  and  chivalrous  temperament. 

"From  something  your  poor  father  once  told  me,  I  under- 
stand that  you  will  be  well  off:  He  said  with  pride  and 
joy  that  he  would  leave  you  at  least  £2,000  a  year.  That 
is  a  lot  of  money — golden  keys  to  open  stiff  doors.  A  man 
can  do  a  lot  of  good  or  a  lot  of  harm  with  £2,000  a  year. 
I  am  sure  you  will  do  as  much  good  as  you  can." 

Lenny,  in  replying,  explained  how  he  was  dealing  with 
his  father's  fortune. 

"I  felt  that  I  could  do  no  less.  He  had  trusted  me  by 
telling  me  his  wish,  and  from  that  moment  it  became  a 
sacred  trust.  .  .  .  That  is  how  things  stand.  So  you 
see,  dear  old  boy,  far  from  having  £2,000  a  year,  I  have 
reduced  myself  to  £900  per  annum  at  the  very  outside. 
Of  course  this  is  enough  for  anybody,  and  I  hope  that  it 
will  allow  scope  for  doing  more  good  than  harm." 

George  wrote  back  enthusiastically,  almost  one  might 
say  rapturously.  .  .  .  "It  may  seem  a  small  thing  to 
you,  my  dear  old  Lenny,  but  it  would  seem  a  very  big  thing 
to  most  people.  But  it  is  the  right  thing.  That  was  enough 
for  you  to  know."  Then  came  more  praise.  "There  was 
never  anybody  like  you,  Lenny." 

In  a  postscript  that  George  added  to  this  letter,  he  spoke 
of  Gerald  Dryden,  and  in  doing  so,  paid  further  compli- 
ments to  Lenny. 

"I  was  very  glad  to  hear  from  Gerald  Dryden  that  he 
had  got  on  so  well.  He  seems  to  have  been  lucky,  and 
to  have  dropped  into  a  really  good  thing.  Already  a  part- 
ner in  the  firm,  and  making  his  way  fast!     You  know  how 

135 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

I  took  to  him,  that  time  when  I  was  with  you  at  West- 
church.  He  then  seemed  very  promising  material,  and 
you  have  'shaped  him.'  He  struck  me  as  a  really  fine  fel- 
low, with  the  soundest  ideas  on  all  essentials.  I  tell  you 
this,  because  I  know  it  will  please  you  to  feel  that  he  is 
doing  you  credit." 

Time  was  gliding  by.  May,  June,  and  now  July;  the 
tourist  season  had  begun;  and  still  Lenny  had  not  yet  quite 
come  into  his  own. 

Although  Mr.  Newall  produced  sums  of  money  on  ac- 
count, the  bulk  of  the  money  was  not  yet  accessible  to  its 
owner's  control.  But  these  cash  payments  of  £100  or  so 
at  a  time  gave  one  a  foretaste  of  the  larger  fulfilment  that 
was  approaching. 

Lenny  noticed  a  peculiar  quality  in  the  sovereigns  that 
he  now  carried  loose  in  his  pockets:  something  that,  to 
the  touch,  made  them  feel  different  from  exactly  similar 
coins  that  he  had  fingered  in  the  past.  The  old  money 
had  been  given  to  him;  this  new  money  was  his  very  own. 
But  then  with  the  novel  feeling  came  a  hitherto  unexpe- 
rienced care.  This  fund  was  not  inexhaustible,  and  he 
could  not  replenish  it  merely  by  making  a  request.  Now 
and  then  he  reviewed  the  extent  and  limit  of  his  resources 
with  a  painstaking  exactitude.  £500  a  year  to  begin  with; 
then  £30,000  capital — a  little  more,  really;  for  the  estate 
would  realize  a  thousand  or  two  more  than  Mr.  Newall 
had  anticipated.  £30,000,  capital,  should  yield  £1,200  a 
year,  income.  But  the  £1,200  was  to  be  divided  into  three. 
£400  a  year  for  Jane;  £400  a  year  for  Sarah — that  would 
leave  him  with  £900  a  year  for  himself,  all  told.  If  his 
father  had  not  changed  his  mind,  if  he  had  carried  out  his 
original  and  firmly  established  intentions,  he  would  almost 
have  succeeded  in  doing  what  he  told  George  Verinder  with 

136 


IN  COTTON  WOOL 

so  much  pride  he  earnestly  wished  to  do — that  is  to  say, 
he  would  have  left  his  son  something  very  near  £2,000  a 
year.  Yes,  £500  and  £1,200  a  year  makes  £1,700.  Those 
two  odd  thousands  and  the  proceeds  from  lease,  furniture, 
personal  effects,  etc.,  would  have  brought  it  very  nearly 
to  the  desired  figure. 

What  a  tremendous  difference!  Lenny  thought  of  it 
lengthily  and  seriously.  £2,000  a  year  would  have  made 
him  feel  quite  rich;  £900  a  year  seemed  merely  to  place 
him  in  the  position  that  he  had  always  occupied.  Yes, 
in  sober  truth,  what  with  board,  lodging,  and  everything 
else  found,  and  practically  unlimited  pocket-money,  he  had 
always  been  living  at  the  rate  of  about  £900  a  year. 

Never  mind.  The  trite  old  proverb  offered  itself  as  im- 
mediate consolation.  It's  no  good  crying  over  spilt  milk; 
and  one  ought  to  make  the  best  of  things,  not  the  worst 
of  them. 

He  resolved  to  make  the  very  best  of  things:  to  Cut  his 
coat  according  to  his  cloth;  to  keep  a  wise  check  on  ex- 
penses; to  govern  the  future  by  prearranged  plans,  rather 
than  allow  himself  to  be  ruled  by  the  hazard  of  unfore- 
seen circumstances. 

But  for  the  time  being  he  purposely  allowed  himself  an 
unrestricted  license.  Even  though  Newall's  cash  payments 
should  properly  be  considered  as  capital  rather  than  in- 
come, he  decided  to  dissipate  them  freely.  They  were  so 
little  in  amount,  anyhow,  that  he  could  safely  disregard 
their  classification  in  business  terms.  Besides,  he  felt  sure 
of  himself.  He  was  not  the  sort  of  person  who  would  ever 
gamble  or  fritter  away  the  capital  on  which  the  security 
of  his  whole  life  depended.  Though  slightly  extravagant 
for  the  moment,  he  felt  certain  that  he  could  pull  up  short 
whenever  caution  became  necessary. 

Thus,  during  the  warm  June  weather,  he  enjoyed  many 

13T 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

of  the  pleasures  that  affluence  can  bring.  And  the  first  of 
these  was  an  almost  unthinking  generosity. 

He  gave  large  presents  to  poor  people,  without  troubling 
himself  to  ascertain  whether  they  were  also  worthy  people. 
The  pleasure  lay  in  the  ready  gift  and  the  explosion  of 
grateful  thanks.  He  wanted  nothing  for  himself  just  now. 
He  could  not  take  any  part  in  social  amusements.  He  did 
not  feel  disposed  for  the  company  that  he  could  obtain  at 
the  club.  But  he  liked  to  walk  about  in  his  black  clothes; 
to  talk  to  humble  folk,  and  to  hand  out  sovereigns  which 
surprised  and  delighted  their  recipients.  He  liked,  too,  to 
sit  at  the  big  desk  in  the  library,  and  write  cheques — cheque 
after  cheque — five  or  six  before  noon.  One  for  the  hos- 
pital, one  for  the  lifeboat,  one  for  the  fishermen's  shelter — 
one,  two,  three  more  for  illiterate  correspondents,  who  had 
ventured  to  crave  some  slight  aid. 

Great  satisfaction  in  this  beneficence — delightful  sense 
of  playing  Providence  on  a  small  scale!  When  he  had 
closed  the  cheque-book,  he  went  off  in  dreams,  thinking 
of  what  one  might  do  with  vast  wealth.  If  he  were  a  mil* 
lionaire,  he  would  not  build  schools,  endow  institutions, 
or  found  universities.  There  was  something  cold  and 
cheerless  about  such  systematic  and  remote  charity;  there 
could  be  little  glow  or  warmth  of  personal  pleasure,  when 
one  aimed  at  such  distant  benefits — to  educate  unborn  chil- 
dren, to  succour  sick  people  who  were  as  yet  young  and  ro- 
bust, to  reach  one's  hand  through  darkness  and  time  to  do 
a  doubtful  good  after  one  had  been  consigned  to  the  grave. 
No,  the  real  pleasure  would  be  reaped  by  personally  inter- 
vening in  people's  fate.  For  instance,  supposing  that  among 
his  acquaintance  there  were  a  nice  young  man  and  a  nice 
young  woman  who  wished  to  marry,  but  who  were  pre- 
cluded from  doing  so  by  want  of  means — that  would  be 
the  sort  of  case  to  tackle.     "You  are  really  fond  of  each 

138 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

other?  You  are  longing  for  each  other?  But  fate  has 
ordained  that  you  are  to  wait  indefinitely.  All  the  fresh- 
ness and  joy  of  life  is  to  be  taken  from  you  before  you  are 
able  to  consummate  your  natural  and  very  proper  hope. 
Very  well,  here  is  £400  a  year.  I  have  settled  it  upon  you. 
You  may  marry  to-morrow."  That  would  be  to  act  Provi- 
dence, oneself.  It  would  give  one  the  fullest  measure  of 
gratification  that  can  be  extracted  from  the  exercise  of 
power.  And  one  would  have  the  certainty  of  the  direct  good 
one  was  doing. 

He  had  this  fascinating  notion  of  personating  a  kind 
destiny  as  he  interviewed  his  servants  one  after  another. 
He  had  felt  that  something  substantial  must  be  done  for 
each  of  them,  however  much  it  cost,  before  he  finally 
closed  the  house;  and  he  now  tackled  the  matter. 

Miss  Ferguson,  the  nurse,  had  of  course  gone  back  to 
Sister.  But  he  sent  a  present  after  her.  The  cook  and 
two  of  the  maids  could  be  polished  off  with  a  handsome 
donation;  but  there  remained  the  two  maids  who  had  been 
longest  in  his  father's  service — Mary,  the  old  parlourmaid, 
and  Ethel,  the  nice  attentive  housemaid  who  for  many 
years  had  acted  as  Lenny's  valet. 

Ethel  presented  an  occasion  for  exactly  the  kind  of  in- 
terposition of  which  he  had  been  dreaming.  She  stood 
before  him  blushing  while  she  confessed  that  it  was  the 
desire  of  her  heart  to  cease  sweeping  and  valeting,  and  go 
and  keep  house  for  the  extremely  attractive  young  man  who 
was  waiting  to  lead  her  tc  the  altar.  Lenny,  seated  at  the 
big  desk,  encouraged  Ethel  to  open  all  her  heart  to  him, 
and  by  gentle  questioning  elicited  most  of  the  facts  nec- 
essary to  enable  him  to  form  a  judgment.  Ethel's  sweet- 
heart was  a  grocer's  assistant,  and  he  thought  that  with  a 
very  small  capital  he  would  be  justified  in  opening  a  shop 
on  his  own  account.  He  even  had  a  shop  in  his  eye.  It 
10  139 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

stood  at  a  corner  among  all  those  new  workmen's  houses 
on  the  other  side  of  the  railway. 

"And  how  much  capital  would  be  necessary  to  set  him 
up?" 

"He  talks  of  £150,  sir.  But  I  have  savings  of  my  own, 
and  I  don't  see  but  what  we  could  do  it  for  less  than  that." 

"Very  good,  Ethel.  I  will  inquire  into  the  matter,  and 
if  I  find  that  he  is  all  that  you  think  him  to  be — well,  I'll 
provide  you  with  the  capital." 

"Oh,  sir!"  Ethel  gasped,  and  then  turned  pale.  Sur- 
prise and  joy  overcame  her. 

"There,  there!"  said  Lenny  magnificently.  "Thank  me 
some  other  time.  You  have  always  been  a  good  girl,  Ethel, 
— a  very  good  nice  girl, — and  I  should  be  sorry  to  part 
with  you  without  first  showing  that  I  valued  your  fidelity." 

Then  it  was  the  turn  of  old  Mary.  Summoned  to  the 
library,  she  stood  before  him  in  a  convenient  position  near 
the  big  desk.  Mary  did  not  blush;  she  looked  at  her  mas- 
ter frankly  and  affectionately. 

"Mary,  we  must  part.  But  we  shall  part  good  friends, 
I  hope." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir." 

"You  were  a  faithful  servant  to  my  father,  and  he  valued 
you;  but  he  did  not  mention  you  in  his  will." 

"Oh,  no,  sir!     I'm  sure  I  never  expected  it." 

"He  relied  on  me,  Mary.  He  knew  that  it  would  be 
my  wish  to  carry  out  his  wish.  And  although  he  never  said 
what  he  did  in  fact  wish  to  be  done,  I  know  that  he  would 
wish  me  to  treat  you  handsomely." 

Then  he  began  to  ask  his  questions.  Old  Mary  had  no 
sweetheart.  Oh,  no,  she  had  left  all  that  nonsense  behind 
her  a  long  time  ago.  She  said  she  was  one  of  the  regular 
old  maids,  and  she  didn't  feel  ashamed  to  say  so.  "The 
men,  unless  you  get  a  good  one — and  the  good  ones  are 

140 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

mighty  rare,  sir — aren't  worth  the  trouble  of  bothering 
about  'em.  That's  my  opinion,"  said  Mary,  stoutly;  and 
without  a  suspicion  of  sour  grapes  in  her  voice  or 
manner. 

Then  he  asked  her  which  would  she  like,  some  money 
down,  or  a  small  annuity.  Mary  chose  the  annuity  without 
a  moment's  hesitation.  She  hoped  to  find  another  place, 
and  to  go  on  working  till  she  got  past  work ;  but  the  knowl- 
edge of  certain  provision  for  old  age  would  make  her  ex- 
tremely blithe  and  happy. 

Lenny  therefore  instructed  his  solicitor  to  purchase  in 
due  course  an  annuity  of  £50  a  year  for  Mary.  It  would 
cost  a  lot  of  money,  but  it  was  one  of  the  things  that  had 
to  be  done. 

These  interviews  and  munificences  had  given  him  very 
great  pleasure;  but  now,  all  at  once,  he  became  tired.  The 
effort  of  cheque-writing  exhausted  him.  He  felt  unable 
to  write  the  shortest  letter.  Extraordinary  fatigue  and 
weariness  on  certain  days  rendered  him  incapable  of  doing 
anything  except  sit  in  his  library,  or  take  an  evening  stroll 
along  the  sea-front. 

The  month  of  July  opened  with  great  heat,  and  he  began 
to  suffer  from  headaches.  The  tourists  seemed  to  have  ar- 
rived earlier  than  usual  this  year;  perhaps  the  heat  of  Lon- 
don had  prematurely  driven  them  to  search  for  cool  air; 
but  they  didn't  find  it  at  Westchurch.  Lenny's  headaches 
bothered  him;  those  words  of  Dr.  Searle's  haunted  him. 
He  felt  nostalgic  longings  for  escape. 

August  was  cooler,  and  Lenny  took  longer  walks  now — 
but  always  alone.  His  bereavement  had  broken  all  the 
old  habits  of  lounging  and  talking  with  Westchurch  boys 
and  girls,  and  he  could  not  take  up  the  habits  again.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  Westchurch  and  its  whole  residential 

141 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

population  belonged  to  that  chapter  of  his  life  which  Dr. 
Searle  said  he  ought  to  consider  closed  for  ever. 

Novelty  was  the  tonic  medicine  which  he  now  urgently 
required.  New  acquaintances,  and  not  ancient  acquaint- 
ances, were  the  material  amongst  which  he  must  seek  and 
find  companionship. 

A  letter  that  announced  his  election  to  the  London  club 
set  him  thinking.  It  was  a  thoroughly  good  club,  and 
the  fact  that  he  had  been  elected  without  taking  the  least 
trouble  rather  gratified  him.  Apparently,  his  name,  and 
what  his  proposer  and  seconder  had  been  able  to  say  to 
his  advantage,  had  proved  ample  guarantee.  The  club- 
house was  a  stately  building  situated  near  the  bottom  of 
St.  James's  Street,  and  in  his  mind's  eye  he  compared  its 
grand  facade  with  the  front  verandahs,  the  red-tiled  roof, 
and  the  glass  doors  of  the  little  club  here.  He  remem- 
bered how,  walking  up  and  down  St.  James's  Street,  he 
had  caught  glimpses  of  the  hall  and  staircase,  and  how, 
knowing  that  one  day  he  would  become  a  member,  he 
had  noticed  the  sort  of  men  who  went  in  and  out.  They 
were  an  extremely  good  sort;  prosperous,  substantial,  even 
distinguished-looking;  not  very  old  and  not  too  young,  just 
the  sort  of  fellows  one  likes  to  associate  with.  He  knew 
the  man  who  proposed  him,  and  the  man  who  seconded 
him,  but  he  doubted  if  he  was  personally  acquainted  with 
a  single  other  member.  So  much  the  better.  In  his  pres- 
ent state  of  mind,  that  was  exactly  what  he  wanted — 
heaps  of  agreeable  strangers  with  whom  to  exchange  fresh 
and  entertaining  ideas. 

The  stimulating  effect  produced  by  chatting  with  a  com- 
plete stranger  was  brought  home  to  him  very  forcibly  one 
afternoon  towards  the  end  of  August. 

He  had  walked  round  the  back  of  the  golf  links,  and 
was  on  his  way  to  the  sea  again,  when  he  came  through  a 

142 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

circus  encampment  in  the  corner  of  the  common  near  to 
the  gas-works.  This  was  the  traditional  spot  for  such 
itinerant  performers.  His  path  led  him  close  by  the  huge 
circus  tent,  and  he  paused  to  study  the  characteristic  scene. 
Then  he  wandered  among  the  vans,  interested  and  amused 
by  everything  that  he  saw.  The  vans  were  of  all  sizes — 
some  quite  gigantic;  and  from  one  or  two  there  issued  an 
oppressive  mangy  smell  of  wild  beasts  in  captivity.  There 
were  trucks  too,  already  packed  with  the  brightly  coloured 
woodwork  that  composed  the  decorated  cars  used  just  now 
in  the  circus  procession.  Draught  horses  dragged  their 
hobbles  as  they  nibbled  at  the  dried  grass,  and  beyond  a 
clump  of  gorse  bushes  he  could  see  a  couple  of  picketed 
elephants.  Nearly  all  the  grooms  and  attendants  were  en- 
gaged in  the  performance,  but  Lenny  noticed  two  or  three 
decent-looking  women,  and  a  man  with  a  little  camp  fire 
and  an  iron  pot  who  was  evidently  cooking  his  afternoon 
meal. 

The  sun  shone  brightly,  but  it  was  not  too  hot  out  here. 
In  the  tent  the  heat  must  be  unbearable,  yet  the  audience 
did  not  seem  to  mind  it.  One  heard  loud  garish  music, 
the  slow  thud  of  a  cantering  horse,  and  every  now  and  then 
a  roar  of  laughter,  and  the  clapping  of  hands. 

Three  little  boys  from  the  cottages  by  the  gas-works 
had  lifted  the  canvas,  and  were  lying  on  the  turf,  spell- 
bound, fascinated,  although  in  this  position  they  could  ob- 
tain no  more  substantial  delights  than  the  sound  of  music 
and  laughter,  and  the  smell  of  earth  and  dust. 

While  Lenny  was  watching  the  little  boys'  backs,  the 
pay-box  custodian  came  round  the  canvas  wall  from  the 
entrance,  and  shouted  angrily: 

"Run  away,  ye  young  devils!  What  d'ye  mean  by  it? 
What  d'ye  think  you  can  see  there?  Run  away  before  I 
fetch  a  stick  and  warm  you  up!" 

143 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Lenny  would  not  allow  the  boys  to  be  driven  off  so 
brutally.  He  told  their  enemy  that  they  were  to  go  inside; 
gave  them  money  for  admission,  and  they  darted  away  to 
the  entrance  with  a  chorus  of  treble  thanks. 

Then  the  cooking  man  came  and  talked  to  Lenny.  He 
was  a  queer  weather-beaten  fellow,  with  rings  in  his  ears, 
eyes  as  bright  as  a  bird's,  and  an  odd  way  of  jerking  his 
head   for  emphasis. 

"You  settled  that  little  difficulty,  sir."  And  the  man 
grinned  amicably.  "We  can't  afford  to  put  anybody  on 
the  free  list  nowadays.  Times  are  not  what  they  were  in 
our  profession." 

"No,  I  suppose  not." 

"You  won't  see  much  more  of  us,  sir.  We're  a  nakran- 
ism."  And  the  man  grinned  more  broadly.  "Know  the 
word,  sir?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lenny,  smiling.    "I  think  I  know  the  word." 

"Greek,  isn't  it?  That's  what  the  bloke  as  told  me 
about  it  said  it  was."  And  the  man  went  on  to  describe  a 
mealy-mouthed  visitor,  who  had  come  to  see  the  circus  at 
a  town  on  the  sea-coast  sixty  miles  away.  "He  steps  out- 
side during  the  ongtrack — you  know,  the  take-it-easy — and 
gets  on  the  jaw,  friendty-like,  same  as  you  and  me  are  doing 
now,  and  says,  'My  friend,  you  mayn't  know  it,  but  you're 
a  nakranism.'  'What's  that?'  I  ses.  'Oh,  Greek,'  he  ses, 
a  word  sinifying  what's  past  its  purpose.'  See?  Well,  I 
sized  it  up  he  meant  we  were  a  bit  of  a  nuisance,  coming 
into  the  town  any  time  of  night  or  morning,  and  interfering 
with  traffic  by  our  mid-day  procesh.  But  he  goes  on,  'Other 
nakranisms  are  kings  and  queens.'  'Oh,'  I  ses,  'leave  it  at 
that,  ole  pal.     I  don't  mind  if  I'm  in  sich  good  company.' 

"But  he  goes  on  again  about  the  circus  itself.  He  could 
get   it    off   the   tongue   pretty   nippy — a   scholar,    I    mean. 

144 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

Well,  he  ses,  'A  whole  literture  'as  grown  up  about  you 
dwellers  in  tents,  you  caravan  folk,  you  gypsies.'  'Gypsies 
be  damned,'  I  ses.  'Don't  you  call  names,  mister.'  And 
I  looked  him  pretty  straight  up  and  down.  You  know, 
sir.  Showin'  'im  I  meant  business  if  necessary.  Lord  'ow 
'e  squirmed — apologisin',  askin'  me  not  to  be  'asty,  but 
keep  my  temper  and  listen.  'Oh,  yes,'  I  ses,  'I'll  listen; 
but  don't  you  make  no  mistake.  Everybody  as  understands 
a  'orse,  and  rides  in  a  cart,  isn't  a  gypsy,  any  more'n  every- 
body as  wears  a  top  'at  and  a  black  coat  isn't  a  gentle- 
man.' 

"Then  the  man  laughed  heartily,  screwed  up  his  face, 
and  nodded  his  head. 

"But  there's  no  two  ways  about  it,  sir.  We're  a  dam' 
nuisance  on  the  road.  We  got  our  big  trolly  with  the 
Brittannia  stuff  hitched  acrost  the  road  for  two  hours 
this  morning,  between  'ere  and  the  harbour." 

Lenny  gave  the  man  a  cigar.  The  man  pleased  him. 
He  seemed  so  entirely  natural,  and  with  such  an  individual 
turn  of  philosophy  and  humour.  He  was  hard  and  wiry; 
inured  to  toil;  a  creature  of  activity,  who  eats  little,  sleeps 
little,  and  yet  is  always  mentally  and  physically  fit.  More- 
over, Lenny  had  an  intuitive  comprehension  that  although 
no  doubt  he  would  fight  and  drink  and  lie,  and  possibly 
even  steal,  he  was,  nevertheless,  fundamentally  a  real  good 
sort. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  man,  as  he  took  the  cigar. 
"I  shall  put  this  in  my  face  and  smoke  your  'ealth  on  the 
next  erpropriate  opportunity." 

Then  the  man  began  to  tell  anecdotes,  leading  off  with 
a  very  old  story — about  a  drunkard  who  involved  himself 
in  a  nocturnal  altercation  with  an  elephant.  Confused 
by  the  similarity  between  the  two  ends  of  the  animal,  wor- 
ried first  by  the  tail  and  then  by  the  trunk,  he  had  at  last 

145 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

hiccoughed   out   this   threat,    "You   two-tailed   blackguard, 
if  I  knew  which  was  your  head  I'd  punch  it." 

"You  have  heard  that  before,  sir.    Chestnuts,  eh?" 

But  then  the  man  told  tales  that  were  fresher  and  more 
diverting — about  personal  experiences,  the  young  ladies  who 
performed  in  the  arena,  the  boss  and  his  missus; — arid 
gradually  Lenny  was  amused.  The  man's  dryness  and 
shrewdness  tickled  him,  and  he  laughed.  Finally  something 
the  man  had  said  made  Lenny  laugh  with  intense  enjoy- 
ment. Indeed  he  could  not  stop  laughing;  and  the  man 
was  so  naively  pleased  with  his  success  that  he  continued 
to  press  the  point  of  the  jest.  Lenny's  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  his  chest  began  to  ache;  he  was  almost  doubled  up 
by  laughter.  Really  it  seemed  like  an  hysterical  access, 
or  a  long-delayed  explosion  of  emotional  energy.  At  last 
he  pulled  himself  together,  wiped  his  eyes,  and  became  pre- 
ternaturally  grave.  He  had  suddenly  remembered  his 
father's  death.  The  incongruity,  the  heartlessness,  the 
cruelty  of  laughing  so  soon,  brought  a  painful  feeling  of 
shame  and  regret.     He  took  leave  of  the  man  at  once. 

"Good-day  to  you,"  and  he  spoke  now  with  a  rather  pom- 
pous sympathy,  "and  good  luck  to  you.  I  am  afraid  that 
on  the  whole  yours  is  a  hard  life." 

"Well,  yes,  sir;  but  after  all,  it's  life.  We're  on  the 
move.  That  is  the  great  thing,  isn't  it,  sir,  to  feel  you're 
free  even  when  you  are  a  slave?" 

Lenny  gave  the  man  half  a  sovereign;  slipped  it  deli- 
cately into  his  brown  hand. 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  cadging,  sir.  But  I  thank  you.  It's 
thirsty  weather." 

Then  presently  he  ran  after  Lenny. 

"Sir!  This  ain't  a  tanner,  it's  'alf  a  thick  'un.  You've 
made  a  mistake." 

"No  mistake,"  said  Lenny.    "Good  luck  to  you." 
146 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

He  could  not  get  this  chance  talk  out  of  his  mind.  He 
could  not  forget  the  fit  of  laughter.  Next  day  he  had  a 
bad  headache,  and  still  he  thought  of  the  stranger's  idle 
words. 

To  feel  free  even  though  you  are  a  slave!  But  what 
about  being  free,  and  yet  feeling  yourself  a  slave? 

He  was  free,  and  he  must  enjoy  his  freedom;  that  was 
imperative.  Dr.  Searle  said  so.  There  was  risk,  there  was 
danger,  in  the  failure  to  emancipate  himself  from  care  and 
worry. 

Moved  by  a  sudden  impulse  he  went  around  to  the  solici- 
tor's office,  and  told  Mr.  Newall  that  he  was  to  complete 
all  Calcraft  business  without  further  instructions. 

"Finish  it,"  he  said  peremptorily,  and  yet  querulously. 
"Finish  it  as  best  you  can.  Get  rid  of  the  house,  sell  the 
furniture — do  the  best  you  can  for  me.  I  must  be  free, 
I  am  worn  out.  I  am  leaving  for  London  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

Of  course  there  had  been  great  talk  in  Westchurch  as 
to  what  he  would  do.  Would  Westchurch  lose  him  alto- 
gether, or  might  it  hope  to  retain  him  as  something  that 
it  could  still  count  on  as  more  or  less  its  own?  No  doubt, 
sooner  or  later,  he  would  tell  his  old  friends  what  he  had 
decided.  But  he  evaded  all  leave-taking — he  simply  could 
not  face  it.     He  was  too  tired. 

Early  promenaders  on  the  front  saw  that  the  blinds  were 
down  again  at  No.  i,  The  Crescent.  It  gave  people  a 
shock;  but  tradesmen's  boys  were  able  to  say  that  nothing 
dreadful  had  happened.  The  house  was  merely  shut  up. 
Thus  Westchurch  learned  with  consternation  that  it  had 
lost  him. 


XV 


HE  had  been  in  London  five  weeks,  and  still  he  had 
settled  no  arrangements  for  his  tour  of  adventure. 
He  was  staying  at  one  of  those  great  hotels  near 
Charing  Cross;  and,  walking  from  his  hotel  to  his  club,  he 
often  stopped  outside  the  windows  of  the  tourist  agents, 
looked  at  the  pictures  of  ocean  liners,  read  notices  about 
transcontinental  trains,  and  dreamed  of  far-off  and  once 
mysterious  lands  that  have  become  so  easily  accessible  to 
modern  travellers.  He  intended  soon  to  go  into  the  agents' 
office  and  demand  specific  information,  but  he  put  off  doing 
this  from  day  to  day. 

He  liked  his  club — liked  it  more  and  more,  liked  it  im- 
mensely. It  was  spacious,  splendid,  reposeful;  and  excel- 
lently managed  by  a  vigilant  committee  and  an  untiring  sec- 
retary. Everything  in  it,  large  or  small,  pleased  him:  from 
the  vast  silent  library  with  its  ingenious  book  rests  and  luxu- 
rious couches  to  the  weighing  machine  in  the  hall  with  its 
small  padded  seat  and  the  volume  that  invited  members  to 
enter  their  weights  for  future  reference.  He  was  picking  up 
acquaintances  too.  He  had  done  wonderfully  well  in  this 
respect. 

"Good-morning,   Calcraft." 

"Are  you  for  a  game  of  billiards,  Calcraft?" 

"Dining  here  to-night,  Calcraft?" 

These  recognitions,  so  promptly  secured,  were  most  pleas- 
ing to  the  ear.  Once  as  he  passed  through  the  long  coffee 
room,  nine  members  at  different  tables  greeted  him.     All 

148 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

the  servants  knew  him  already.  There  was  never  the 
slightest  trouble  about  his  letters  or  telegrams.  He  felt 
altogether  comfortable — so  far  as  the  club  was  concerned. 

But  in  other  respects  he  still  experienced  discomfort. 
There  was  a  perpetual  burden  on  his  spirits,  and  it  pre- 
vented them  from  rising  to  the  pitch  of  lightness  that  one 
might  reasonably  have  expected  ere  this.  He  continued  to 
feel  uneasy  about  the  general  state  of  his  health.  There 
was  nothing  the  matter  with  his  appetite,  and  he  slept  well  ; 
but  there  had  been  recurrence  of  the  dull  head  pains,  an  ach- 
ing heaviness  that  seemed  like  the  physical  counterpart  of 
an  oppressive  idea. 

He  told  people,  if  they  made  polite  inquiries,  that  he  felt 
anything  but  well.  He  told  Mrs.  Fletcher  so,  when  she 
remarked  that  he  looked  thinner. 

She  lived  in  a  new  red-brick  house  close  to  Sloane  Street; 
and  after  she  had  twice  reminded  him  of  his  promise,  he 
fulfilled  it  by  paying  a  ceremonious  call. 

A  tall  young  footman  opened  the  door,  and  a  charmingly 
dressed  maid-servant  ushered  him  up  the  stairs.  His  first 
rapid  glances  of  inspection  persuaded  Lenny  that  this  was 
a  home  of  really  considerable  affluence.  The  house  was 
much  bigger  inside  than  he  had  anticipated  while  standing 
on  the  front  door  steps.  A  nice  square  hall,  oak  panelling, 
blue  and  white  china;  half  way  up  the  shallow  stairs  a  pic- 
ture by  Tadema ;  on  the  landing  a  much-engraved  and  popu- 
lar Burne-Jones,  and  a  Leighton  that  he  remembered  from 
childhood;  at  the  threshold  of  the  drawing-room  he  had  an 
impression  of  varied  treasures,  as  in  a  bric-a-brac  shop — 
and  he  understood  exactly  why  there  was  this  queer  com- 
bination of  smart  footman  and  female  butler.  The  foot- 
man was  a  necessity,  to  drive  out  with  the  carriage;  but 
Mrs.  Fletcher,  as  an  unprotected  woman  living  by  herself, 
would  not  be  bothered  with  the  supervision  and  government 

149 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

of  men-servants.  Obviously  she  could  afford  to  keep  half  a 
dozen  men,  had  she  desired  to  do  so. 

That  was  his  thought  as  she  came  across  the  rich  and 
pretty  room  to  welcome  him. 

"En fin!"  And  she  looked  at  him  with  the  interrogative 
expression  that  had  nearly  faded  from  his  memory.  "I  am 
doubly  fortunate,  since  you  never  announced  your  kind  in- 
tention.    I  might  have  been  out." 

"Or  might  have  said  you  were  out;"  and  the  visitor 
smiled  gravely.  "That  is  the  custom  with  you  fine  London 
ladies,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  not  my  custom — and  I'm  not  a  fine  lady.  When- 
ever I'm  at  home  I'm  always  glad  to  see  any  one  who  comes. 
But  I  never  ask  people  to  come — unless  I  want  to  see  them. 
Sit  down,  and  let  us  have  a  talk  before  anyone  disturbs  us." 

She  had  a  dress  of  grey  velvet,  the  bodice  cut  rather  low, 
with  a  lace  collar;  and  round  her  neck,  half  hiding  beneath 
the  lace,  there  was  a  single  row  of  large  pearls.  Her  eyes 
seemed  bluer  and  her  lips  redder  than  he  remembered; 
but  his  memory  received  a  sudden  stimulus  when  he  noticed 
again  that  faint  sweet  odour  of  violets.  There  were  none 
of  the  flowers  pinned  to  her  breast  to-day,  and  he  could  not 
see  any  of  them  about  the  room. 

"You  got  my  letter,"  she  asked — "the  one  I  ventured 
to  send  you  at  Westchurch  ?" 

"Yes,  it  was  quite  the  nicest  I  received." 

"What  can  one  say  at  such  times?" 

"You  said  everything  possible." 

He  did  not  in  fact  recall  a  word  of  the  letter;  but  he  knew 
that  all  the  words  had  been  neatly  turned,  well  chosen,  and 
full  of  sympathy.  And  she  was  extraordinarily  sympathetic 
now,  dropping  her  voice  as  she  spoke  of  the  bereavement, 
and  softening  the  outlook  of  her  blue  eyes.  He  felt  much 
more  drawn  to  her  than  when  he  spent  those  two  hours 

150 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

at  the  Esplanade  Hotel ;  and  the  notion  came  to  him  vaguely 
that  if  to-day  she  indulged  in  confidences,  he  would  be  per- 
mitted to  give  any  sort  of  expression  to  his  soothing  or  con- 
solatory attempts.  There  would  be  no  abrupt  checkings  or 
withdrawals  or  proud  reticences. 

"I  couldn't  help  writing  to  you — I  was  thinking  about 
you.  I  know  what  it  meant  to  you.  ...  It  must  have 
been  a  terrible  blow." 

They  had  seated  themselves  side  by  side  on  a  highly  dec- 
orative French  sofa;  but  at  this  direct  reference  to  his  grief 
he  got  up,  as  if  automatically,  and  slowly  walked  about 
the  room. 

"Yes,  terrible;"  and  he  spoke  in  a  low  meditative  tone. 
"The  blow  was  most  terrible.  ...  I  thought  it  was 
more  than  I  could  bear.  I  thought  I  should  never  get  over 
it." 

"I  understand.     I  was  sorry — very  sorry." 

Her  voice  had  dropped  to  a  whisper:  it  was  soft  as  a 
caress.     The  depth  of  her  sympathy  delighted  Lenny. 

"My  whole  life  seemed  to  tumble  to  pieces.  There 
seemed  no  reason  why  I  should  go  on  living." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that." 

"It  was  what  I  felt.     But  then — then  I  began "    He 

left  the  sentence  unfinished.  Moving  to  and  fro,  he  had 
found  himself  in  front  of  a  Venetian  mirror,  and  his  thought 
immediately  wandered.  A  large,  well-built  man,  looking 
sad  but  dignified;  a  sun-burnt,  well-groomed  man,  with 
moustache  accurately  trimmed,  hair  perfectly  parted,  rather 
high,  on  right  side  of  head;  a  well-dressed  man,  with  thin 
black  lines  on  the  peep  of  shirt  below  the  black  tie  and  the 
pearl  pin — himself!  He  turned  from  the  glass,  and  touched 
his  coat  and  waistcoat  explanatorily.  "Each  time  that  I  see 
these  black  clothes,  the  thought  of  their  significance  brings 
back  all  my  sorrow — as  though  it  were  yesterday." 

151 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Don't  think  of  your  black  clothes,"  she  said,  softly  and 
kindly. 

"No,  I  must  try  not  to;"  and  he  slowly  returned  to  her, 
and  stood  by  the  sofa. 

"Shall  I  describe  how  you  are  dressed?"  She  had  half 
closed  her  eyes,  and  was  looking  up  at  him.  "You  are 
wearing  that  mantle,  Mr.  Calcraft.  It  is  grander  than  be- 
fore. Its  folds  are  deeper;  it  sweeps  along  the  ground,  and 
makes  you  so  majestic  that  I  am  almost  afraid  of  you." 

He  flushed  slightly  and  stared  down  at  her.  What  on 
earth  did  she  mean?  Her  mystical  compliment  gratified, 
but  confused  him. 

"I  told  you,"  she  went  on,  smiling,  "that  the  praise  of 
your  friends  and  your  own  good  deeds  had  woven  a  mantle 
for  you — and  that  I  admired  it.  Well,  you  have  provided 
further  material  for  the  loom,  and  the  mantle  is  larger — 
and  I  admire  it  still  more." 

Then  he  understood  that  she  was  alluding  to  his  munifi- 
cent endowment  of  the  sisters.  Miss  Workman  no  doubt 
had  supplied  this  information. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  with  some  embarrassment,  "you  mustn't 
believe  all  you  hear.  One's  friends  get  a  trick  of  exag- 
gerating, and  they  talk  a  lot  of  nonsense." 

"You  have  been  lucky  in  your  friends,  Mr.  Calcraft. 
.  .  .  Please  sit  down.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  you 
are  doing,  what  you  intend  to  do.  .  .  .  I  mean  to  re- 
main in  London  as  long  as  I  can — until  the  fogs  drive  me 
away." 

Lenny  resumed  his  place  on  the  sofa;  but  the  arrival  of 
another  visitor  made  him  get  up  directly. 

The  newcomer  was  a  fat,  placid,  sumptuously  attired 
woman  of  middle  age.  She  seemed  to  be  quite  an  old 
friend,  or  possibly  a  relative;  for  she  kissed  Mrs.  Fletcher 
and  called  her  "my  dear  Helen." 

U2 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Don't  go,  Mr.  Calcraft." 

Lenny,  having  risen,  did  not  propose  to  sit  down  again. 
He  politely  lingered  for  two  minutes ;  and  then,  feeling  that 
he  had  duly  honoured  his  introduction  to  the  fat  lady,  he 
judged  that  he  was  at  liberty  to  withdraw. 

Mrs.  Fletcher  came  out  to  the  landing,  and  talked  to 
him  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

"It  is  difficult,"  said  Lenny,  affecting  the  air  of  an  ama- 
teur, "to  pass  these  lovely  pictures  without  stopping.  This 
is  a  splendid  thing — Leighton  at  his  best." 

"Do  you  like  it?"  she  said  carelessly.  "I  never  cared  for 
the  English  school.  My  husband  was  a  collector — but  we 
had  no  tastes  in  common." 

"No?  But  I  am  sure  all  the  pretty  furniture  is  your 
taste.  I  think  the  whole  house  is  charming.  That  fine 
hall  is  such  a  feature.  I  thought  at  once,  it  is  like  a  coun- 
try house  in  London." 

"Oh,  no.  It  is  like  a  London  house  and  nothing  else," 
and  she  laughed,  and  gave  her  little  shiver  of  pretended 
alarm.     "Why  will  you  say  these  things?" 

"On  my  honour,  I  mean  them." 

"No  you  don't.  It  would  be  too  dreadful  if  you  did. 
You  know  perfectly  well  you  were  using  the  cant  phrase. 
This  is  the  pattern  medium-sized  house  of  the  last  decade; 
there  are  thousands  exactly  like  it,  and  a  million  people, 
observing  the  familiar  pattern,  have  said  'How  unusualf 
Such  a  nice  hall — quite  a  little  country  house  in  the  middle 
of  London!'  You  oughtn't  to  say  what  everybody  else  says. 
Be  firm  with  yourself,  and  throw  away  all  your  battered 
old  stereos." 

"You  are  very  severe — but  I  must  try  to  enlarge  my 
vocabulary." 

"No,  cut  it  down.  Very  few  words  are  enough  for  what 
one     really     thinks.     .     .     .     Good-bye,     Mr.     Lenny — I 

153 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

mean,  Mr.  Calcraft;"  and  then  she  paused  to  laugh.  "Do 
you  know,  I  thought  it  was  your  only  name  at  first.  That 
dear  old  soul,  Miss  Workman,  spoke  of  you  as  Mr.  Lenny." 

"Yes,  my  pals  always  call  me  Lenny.  I  like  it."  And 
he  added,  from  force  of  habit,  scarcely  aware  of  what  he 
was  saying,  "I  wish  you'd  call  me  Lenny." 

"Oh,  but  we're  not  pals;"  and  she  looked  at  him  smil- 
ingly and  frankly.  "Perhaps  I  will,  one  day — if  we  ever 
reach  the  stage  of  being  pals.  But  I  don't  believe  in  forc- 
ing the  pace  at  the  beginning  of  a  friendship." 

Yet  perhaps  truly,  although  he  did  not  recognize  the  fact, 
she  had  forced  the  pace  to  a  considerable  extent  already. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Calcraft.  But  you'll  come  and  see  me 
soon  again,  won't  you?"  And  it  was  then  that  she  said 
he  had  grown  thinner.  Her  eyebrows  were  arched,  and  the 
blue  eyes  expressed  a  close  attention.  "You  mayn't  know 
it,  but  you're  thinner." 

"Am  I?     I'm  anything  but  well." 

Her  last  words  had  gratified  him  enormously.  He  de- 
rived a  most  flattering  pleasure  from  the  idea  that  she  had 
carried  a  mental  portrait  so  faithful  and  accurate  as  now 
to  be  ready  at  her  service  for  purposes  of  comparison  with 
the  bodily  presence. 

"Don't  let  yourself  get  ill.  London  is  a  very  healthy 
place.  By  the  way,  you  haven't  told  me  if  you  intend 
to  be  here  for  long.  You  haven't  said  a  word  of  your 
plans.     What  are  your  plans?" 

"They  are  all  in  abeyance.    I  am  quite  chaotic  just  now." 

"Well,  let  me  know  when  you  have  made  order  in  chaos." 

Then  she  laughed  once  more,  lightly,  pleasantly,  and 
went  back  to  the  neglected  fat  lady. 

Lenny,  going  down  stairs,  heard  the  rustle  of  her  silk 
petticoat,  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  shoes  and  ankles,  and 
smelt  the  perfume  of  violets. 

1,54 


XVI 


AFTER  all,  what  is  the  good  of  making  plans  for  the 
immediate  future,  while  the  great  problem  of  one's 
whole  life  remains  unsolved? 
The  St.  James's  Street  club  was  peculiarly  attractive 
to  Lenny  on  Saturday  afternoons.  At  the  luncheon  hour 
the  coffee  room  had  more  people  in  it  than  at  any  other 
period  of  the  week;  and  as  soon  as  luncheon  was  over  many 
men  went  straight  to  the  billiard  room  and  the  card-room, 
and  stayed  there  comfortably  and  jollily,  even  when  the 
weather  was  fine  and  warm.  They  told  servants  to  shut  out 
the  daylight,  and  they  made  their  own  sunshine — the  bright- 
ness and  warmth  created  by  relaxation  of  mind,  congenial 
companionship,   and  idle  amusement. 

But  one  Saturday  afternoon,  when  September  had  nearly 
run  its  course  and  the  club  was  delightfully   full,   Lenny 
with  reluctance  tore  himself  away  from  the  crowded  bil- 
liard-room, and  went  forth  into  the  open  air. 
"What!      Not    going,    Calcraft?" 
"Yes, — but  I  hope  to  be  back  before  long." 
A  cab  took  him  northward  and  westward,  further  and 
further  from  the  club,  and  in  every  half  mile  his  spirits 
sank  lower.     He  dismissed  the  cab  outside  a  block  of  cheap 
flats  in  a  desperately  uninteresting  street  near  Paddington 
railway  station,  and  wearily  entered  the  commonplace  build- 
ing.   No  lift — he  slowly  climbed  the  stone  staircase,  stopped 
outside  a  well-remembered  door,  and  rang  the  electric  bell, 
"Is  Miss  Reed  at  home?" 
11  155 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  maid-servant.     "She  has  gone  out." 

"Oh!" 

"Miss  Shipham  is  in,  sir." 

Then  he  heard  Frances  Shipham's  voice  close  at  hand. 
"Is  that  somebody  for  me?"  said  Frances  shrilly.  "Some- 
body from  the  Girls'  Roundabout?     .     .     .     Who  is  it?" 

He  felt  compelled  to  answer,  although  he  would  have 
preferred  to  hurry  down  the  stone  stairs. 

"It  is  Lenny  Calcraft." 

"Oh,  come  in,  Mr.  Calcraft." 

And  he  was  constrained  to  accept  the  invitation  and  join 
Miss  Shipham  in  the  principal  room  of  the  exiguous  little 
flat. 

"How  unfortunate!"  said  Frances.  "Alma  hadn't  a 
ghost  of  an  idea  you  were  coming.  She'll  be  so  dreadfully 
disappointed.  Oh,  I  wish  you'd  told  her  to  expect 
you." 

"I  was  uncertain  if  I  would  be  able  to  come — so  I  didn't 
like  to  make  an  appointment,  for  fear  of  breaking  it." 

"If  only  you  could  have  come  a  little  earlier!  Alma 
hasn't  been  gone  above  thirty  minutes.  I  believe  she  half 
hoped  that  she'd  get  a  wire  from  you — but  then  she  gave 
it  up." 

"I  might  possibly  overtake  her.  Do  you  know  where 
she  was  going?" 

"She  didn't  say.  She  very  often  walks  across  to  the 
South  Kensington  Museum.  She  is  fond  of  Kensington 
Gardens — sometimes  she  goes  into  the  old  palace." 

"Would  she  be  alone — or  was  she  going  to  meet  any- 
one?" 

"Oh,  no;"  and  Frances  shot  a  quick  penetrating  glance 
at  him  from  behind  her  pince-nez.  "If  you  find  her,  you'll 
find  her  quite  alone." 

"Then  I  think  I'll  walk  that  way — on  the  chance." 

156 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

But  he  was  not  allowed  to  escape  without  having  a  little 
talk  with  Alma's  friend. 

"Stop  one  minute,"  said  Frances.  "I  must  show  you 
a  new  photograph  of  her.  /  had  it  done.  I  wanted  a 
really  good  one,  for  myself.  There,"  and  she  handed  him 
a  photograph  frame.  "I  call  that  a  very  good  one,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes— excellent." 

"Of  course  it  doesn't   do  her  justice." 

"It  seems  to  me  an  excellent  likeness." 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so."  Miss  Shipham  took  the  photo- 
graph from  him  again,  and,  with  her  head  a  little  on  one 
side,  examined  it  at  close  range.  "It's  like,  and  unlike. 
It  hasn't  caught  her  look.  The  expression  is  somehow  too 
determined,  too  self-reliant.  What  I  miss  is  that  sweet 
trustful  expression — something  in  dear  Alma  that  always 
reminds  me  of  a  child.  But  perhaps  it  wasn't  the  photog- 
rapher's fault.  Alma  perhaps  wasn't  looking  herself."  And 
once  more  Miss  Shipham  glanced  quickly  at  Lenny's  face. 
"The  fact  is,  Mr.  Calcraft,  Alma  hasn't  been  herself  of 
late." 

"No?" 

"No.  I  have  felt  rather  anxious  about  her.  ...  I 
don't  want  to  detain  you;  but  won't  you  sit  down  for  a 
minute?" 

Frances  Shipham  was  a  thin,  freckled,  sandy  young  wom- 
an ;  and  Lenny  thought  that  at  no  time  of  their  acquaintance 
had  he  seen  her  so  untidy  and  unprepossessing  as  now.  Her 
hair,  badly  parted  in  the  middle  and  carelessly  drawn  back 
into  a  great  blob  on  the  neck,  flopped  loose  over  her  ears. 
Two  buttons  or  hooks  of  her  blouse  had  come  undone;  one 
part  of  her  short  skirt  was  much  lower  than  other  parts, 
and  a  queer  hiatus  caused  by  this  irregularity  showed  beneath 
her  leather  waist-belt;  her  shoes,  much  trodden  down  at  heel, 

157 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

were  shockingly  old  and  shabby;  her  right  forefinger  was 
stained  with  ink — even  her  pince-nez  sat  awkwardly  and 
lopsidedly  on  her  thin  nose. 

As  he  knew,  she  was  really  a  refined,  cultivated  creature, 
a  lady  by  birth,  accustomed  to  the  ways  of  good  society, 
and  she  could  smarten  herself  up  surprisingly  for  a  restau- 
rant dinner  or  an  evening  at  the  play;  but  the  Bohemian 
influences  of  the  newspaper  world  had  made  her  neglect  her 
personal  appearance  in  this  fearful  manner  when  out  of  the 
public  eye.  Her  voice  was  high-pitched,  and  her  utterance 
as  a  rule  rapid — she  gabbled  quite  clever  thoughts  just  as 
she  wrote  them  down  on  paper,  putting  them  into  vivid 
journalistic  style  as  fast  as  she  could.  This  afternoon,  how- 
ever, she  spoke  slowly  and  jerkily,  without  any  fluency, 
seeming  to  seek  for  phrases,  and  to  hesitate  and  check  her- 
self frequently,  as  if  apprehensive  of  saying  too  much  or 
desirous  of  enticing  questions  in  regard  to  her  exact 
meaning. 

"I'm  sure  you  know  how  intensely  I  admire — and  love 
— Alma;  but  perhaps  you  don't  know  how  much  it  has 
been  to  me  to  have  her  here — as  the  dearest  friend  and 
best  companion  one  could  possibly  have." 

He  sat  silent  on  the  very  uncomfortable  three-cornered 
chair  she  had  offered  him,  smiled,  nodded  his  head  in  sign 
of  acquiescence;  but  gave  no  aid  when  she  hesitated,  and 
asked  no  questions  when  she  paused.  He  had  a  sudden  rec- 
ollection of  a  silly  juvenile  game  called  the  Stool  of  Re- 
pentance. You  are  forced  to  sit  and  listen  to  various  im- 
pertinent remarks — and  good  play  at  this  game  consists  in 
taking  everything  calmly,  and  not  losing  your  temper. 

Yet  if  Frances  Shipham  was  being  impertinent  now,  it 
was  in  a  very  subtle  and  indirect  manner.  She  merely 
sang  the  praises  of  Alma  Reed,  as  she  had  always  done 
for  many  years. 

158 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"She  is  so  versatile,  so  brilliant — an  ideal  companion. 
Of  course  when  two  women  are  cooped  up  together  per- 
petually, there  must  be  some  friction — little  jarrings  of 
temperament — an  occasional  tiff — differences  of  opinion  that 
lead  to  absurd  wrangles: — that  is,  ordinarily.  But  Alma 
can't  sulk — it  is  an  impossibility  to  her.  Her  mind  is  too 
big." 

He  nodded  his  head  and  smiled.  In  truth  he  scarcely 
listened.  The  aspect  of  the  room  was  carrying  him  away 
to  hours  spent  in  it  long  ago.  It  was  very  much  as  it  had 
been  when  he  first  saw  it.  The  same  writing  table — Miss 
Shipham's  laborious  corner — with  litter  of  printers'  proofs, 
file  copies  of  the  Girls'  Roundabout  and  other  feminine 
journals;  the  cheap  artistic  armchairs,  cushions,  and  curtains; 
the  rickety  bamboo  bookcases,  crushed  by  the  weight  of 
massed  volumes;  the  black  and  white  sketches — originals  of 
newspaper  illustrations — framed  and  unframed,  against  the 
sage  green  wall; — and,  yes,  there  were  the  portfolios  and 
drawing  boards  that  appertained  to  Miss  Shipham's  strange 
hobby  of  map-making.  Nothing  changed;  but  here  and 
there  small  additions  perceptible:  trifles  that  belonged  to 
Alma — presents  that  he  had  given  to  her, — a  china  bon-bon 
box,  a  bronze  pin  tray,  a  Swiss  eight-day  watch  in  a  Japa- 
nese case. 

The  room  with  its  principal  contents  was  indelibly 
printed  on  the  soft  matter  of  his  brain.  It  would  be  there 
— revivable  or  inaccessible — as  long  as  he  lived.  While  he 
remembered  anything,  he  would  remember  it  as  the  setting 
of  a  little  scene  that  had  been  of  importance — a  crisis  or 
turning  point — in  the  wonderful  unfolding  mystery  of  that 
vast  dramatic  pageant,  the  life-experience  of  Lenny  Calcraft. 

"The  finest  nature  I  have  ever  known."  Frances  went 
on  with  the  song  of  praise.  "I  spoke  of  quarrels  and  mis- 
understandings— but    personally    I    couldn't    quarrel    with 

159 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Alma.  I  should  be  miserable  if  I  thought  a  misunderstand- 
ing had  arisen.  I  wouldn't  rest  one  moment  till  I  had 
cleared  it  up.  I  should  never  forgive  myself,  Mr.  Calcraft, 
if  I  ever  made  Alma  suffer." 

"No,  no.     She  has  often  said  how  kind  you  are." 

"I  do  my  best — but — well,  one  has  to  be  careful  with 
such  natures  as  hers.  She  is  extremely  sensitive — extremely 
proud,  of  course,  too.  Honestly,  I  have  done  all  I  could. 
I  have  tried  not  to  be  selfish — to  make  her  happy.  But — 
but  Alma  is  not  very  happy." 

"No?  She  wrote  to  me — most  cheerfully — only  two 
or  three  days  ago." 

"Ah — but  there  it  is.  People  like  Alma  are  too  proud  to 
complain — however  one   treats   them." 

"But,  Miss  Shipham,  I'm  sure  you  treat  her  with  the 
utmost  consideration." 

"Yes — but  I  am  not  everybody." 

"No,  no — of  course  not."  Lenny  moved  uneasily  on 
the  stool  of  repentance.  "I've  always  been  rather  afraid 
of  those  people." 

"What  people?  Oh,  the  Hygienic  Home  Association! 
Between  you  and  me,  Mr.  Calcraft,  I  think  her  work  there 
has  been  of  great  value — especially  just  lately.  It  is  very 
hard  work — she  is  so  clever  that  they  keep  her  slaving  at 
their  new  pamphlets — she  is  responsible  for  half  their 
pamphlets; — but  on  the  whole  I'm  glad  of  the  work.  It 
has  occupied  her  thoughts — and  has  prevented  her  from 
brooding  on  any  private  causes  of  sadness.  If  you  ask  me 
why  I  say  that " 

Lenny  did  not  ask  her.  He  had  risen  from  the  three- 
cornered  chair;  and,  holding  out  his  hand,  he  apologized 
for  being  in  a  hurry. 

"Please  tell  Alma  I  called,  and  was  very  sorry  to  miss 
her." 

160 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Yes,  I'll  give  her  any  messages.  .  .  .  What  were 
you  going  to  add?" 

"You  might  say,  I'll  settle  something  definite  for  next 
Saturday." 

"Oh!  Won't  you  be  able  to  take  her  out  anywhere  to- 
morrow?" 

"No,  I  fear — not  to-morrow." 

"Of  course,"  said  Miss  Shipham,  staring  at  him  through 
the  tilted  pince-nez,  "I  hope  that  you'll  be  lucky  and  find 
her  now — this  afternoon." 

"Yes.  Let  me  see.  Where  did  you  say  was  the  most 
likely  place?     Kensington  Gardens?" 

"Yes — or  in  the  palace.  They  don't  shut  the  palace  till 
five  o'clock.  Failing  the  palace — I  should  try  the  museum, 
if  I  were  you." 

As  he  walked  along  the  raised  pavement  by  Paddington 
Station,  he  thought  Frances  Shipham  had  permitted  herself 
to  be  impertinent,  troublesome,  and  interfering.  Then,  at 
sight  of  a  prowling  hansom,  he  thought  of  something  else. 

Promptly  hailing  the  cab,  he  drove  straight  back  to  the 
St.  James's  Street  club. 


XVII 

THE  burden  on  his  spirits  was  Alma.  Nothing  else. 
During  those  long  empty  years  she  had  been  of  in- 
estimable value — a  solace,  a  support,  the  unfailing 
source  from  which  he  derived  strength  to  endure  the  fatigue 
and  vapidity  of  life;  but  now  she  was  simply  useless  to  him. 
He  was  fond  of  her,  but  he  did  not  want  her.  That 
summed  it  up.  It  was  a  weariness  to  meet  her.  He  dreaded 
each  meeting. 

One  morning  in  the  club  library  he  thought,  with  a  seri- 
ous analytical  effort,  of  all  these  things.  He  had  just 
fetched  La  Vie  Parisienne  from  the  table  of  foreign  journals, 
and  was  about  to  look  at  it,  when  the  oppressive  recollection 
of  Alma  suddenly  spoiled  his  quiet  enjoyment.  He  took 
a  chair  by  one  of  the  windows,  let  the  paper  slip  from  his 
hand,  and  looked  down  into  the  street.  There  was  the 
world,  rolling  by — the  wide  world  open  to  him;  and  yet 
here  was  he,  sitting  motionless,  and  suffering  the  old 
prison-sensations;  not  free,  far  from  it;  chained — behind 
bars — confined  in  narrow  space;  still  feeling  like  the  eagle 
on  a  perch,  or  the  lion  in  a  cage. 

Gradually  the  animated  view  of  St.  James's  Street  grew 
dull,  grew  blank,  and  vanished.  His  gaze  had  become  in- 
trospective. And  before  he  moved  again,  he  saw  in  vividly 
clear  pictures  the  whole  past  history  of  his  relations  with 
Alma  Reed. 

An  empty  road  and  horses  galloping  towards  him, — 
the   runaway   phaeton,-t-the  heroic   deed!     That   was  the 

162 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

beginning  of  everything.     She  wrote  to  thank  him  for  pre- 
serving her  life,  and  old  Reed  wrote  to  ask  him  to  dinner. 

He  found  pleasure  in  looking  at  her,  in  talking  to  her, 
in  hearing  her  voice.  All  that  he  could  see  of  her,  all  that 
he  could  guess  about  her,  gave  him  delight — her  tallness 
and  her  slenderness,  her  white  skin  and  her  dark  hair; 
her  cleverness,  her  kindness,  her  romantic  enthusiasms;  her 
quick  intelligence  and  her  slim  waist;  her  gracious  smile 
and  her  long  legs;  her  way  of  walking,  of  laughing,  even 
her  way  of  eating  dinner.  Merely  to  sit  by  her  side  at 
the  Reed  banquet  was  the  cause  of  such  satisfaction  that 
he  could  patiently  listen  to  her  idiotic  father  while  he  ex- 
plained at  interminable  length  a  new  theory  of  the  golf 
swing.  So  long  as  Alma  would  go  on  smiling,  fingering 
breadcrumbs,  or  trifling  with  a  dessert  fork,  Mr.  Reed 
might  go  on  chattering  his  otherwise  intolerable  nonsense. 

Thus  he  had  started  the  pleasant  little  flirtation.  On 
Sundays  he  used  to  wait  for  her  outside  the  Catholic 
church.  He  could  see  it  all  now,  bright  and  strong,  and 
full  of  detail — the  whitewashed  wall  with  a  patch  of  loose 
plaster,  the  three  broad  steps  before  the  entrance,  the  doors 
with  frayed  black  leather,  and  the  gold  cross  high  in  the 
sunlight.  As  he  stood  on  the  steps,  he  smelt  the  incense, 
heard  the  Latin  song  and  the  strange  music — felt,  as  so 
many  good  Protestants  feel,  the  charm  of  an  alien  faith,  the 
seductive  splendour  of  Rome,  the  insidious  fascination  of 
something  glorious  but  incomprehensible.  And  then,  among 
the  throng  of  meaningless  faces  and  ungainly  figures,  pretty, 
graceful  Alma  came  out  to  him.  She  had  been  steeped  in 
the  mystery;  the  glamour  lay  upon  her;  so  that  she  re- 
mained grave  and  silent,  with  slow  regular  breath,  and 
eyes  not  yet  shining.  And  they  walked  away  together,  feel- 
ing quite  alone,  though  the  common  Sunday  crowd  brushed 
their  elbows. 

163 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Then  theie  was  the  dance  at  the  Esplanade  Hotel.  He 
could  see  her  now — dressed  in  white,  looking  very  young 
and  slender.  She  had  a  pretty  chaplet  across  her  brow, 
some  arrangement  of  silver  leaves  and  bands  that  made  her 
hair  seem  darker;  silver  beads  and  veilings  about  the  white 
shoulders;  nothing  of  ornament  on  the  white  neck  and 
bosom — but  her  eyes  shining  like  immense  liquid  gems. 
When  they  left  the  hot  and  noisy  ball-room  and  went  down 
the  quiet  corridor,  they  passed  a  glass  door  through  which 
one  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sea.  It  was  calm  and  unruffled, 
with  moonbeams  making  a  silver  path  across  its  depths — 
and  he  told  her  that  she  herself  was  like  moonlight  on  a 
dark  sea.  He  remembered  just  how  he  said  it — a  happy 
thought  finding  ready  utterance.  Tawdry  decorations, 
Chinese  lanterns,  palms — and,  at  the  end  of  the  corridor, 
the  screened  sitting-out  place  that  he  sought. 

Freshness,  pureness,  youth,  trustfully  and  momentarily 
yielding  to  his  wish  and  his  will — that  was  the  import  of 
all  the  brain  messages  as  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her.  It  was  the  lightest  and  most  unsensual  embrace;  and 
after  it  they  stood  smiling  at  one  another,  happily  and  in- 
nocently. He  was  like  a  man  who  has  abandoned  his  habit 
of  strong  drink,  and  found  himself  refreshed  and  inspirited 
by  a  draught  of  sparkling  water. 

"Alma,"  he  said,  "you  must  call  me  Lenny  now.  It 
would  be  silly  not  to." 

She  laughed  before  she  answered. 

"You  take  a  great  deal   for  granted — Lenny." 

And  then  they  went  back  to  the  ball-room,  and  danced, 
and  danced,  and  danced. 

That  first  kiss  was  like  the  delicate  seal  upon  a  pre- 
liminary treaty  of  mutual  confidence  and  affection.  Nobody 
inquired  what  his  further  intentions  might  be.  Nobody 
interfered  with  either  of   them.     On   Sundays   the  family 

164 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

worshipped  at  the  Parish  Church;  on  week-days  old  Reed 
played  golf  and  Mrs.  Reed  educated  her  children.  It  was 
easy  to  get  hold  of  Alma  by  herself  whenever  one  wanted 
to. 

Then  the  thing  broadened,  deepened,  and  became  diffi- 
cult. 

Haven  Lodge  had  once  been  a  solitary  farmhouse  stand- 
ing in  the  midst  of  open  fields  that  stretched  from  the 
town  to  the  river.  Now  it  was  surrounded  by  roads  and 
buildings,  almost  the  poorest  part  of  Westchurch ;  but  some 
attributes  of  its  peaceful  agricultural  past  lingered  about 
the  old  house.  An  orchard  and  a  paddock  still  remained 
to  it;  there  were  clipped  yew  trees  on  either  side  of  the 
iron  gate;  and  fine  red-brick  walls  of  an  ancient  kitchen 
garden  secured  it  from  the  observation  of  passers-by  in 
River  Lane.  The  lane  was  Lenny's  meeting-ground.  Alma 
used  to  come  through  the  orchard  to  join  him;  and,  turning 
their  backs  on  the  fashionable  sea- front,  they  would  stroll 
down  unfrequented  paths  to  the  river. 

He  remembered  his  last  stroll  with  her  as  well  as  if 
it  had  occurred  yesterday  instead  of  seven  years  ago.  A 
May  morning,  and  a  faint  white  haze  on  land  and  water, 
with  the  promise  of  sunshine  quivering  here  and  there. 
The  orchard  was  full  of  pink  blossoms ;  and,  while  he  waited 
for  her,  a  branch  of  lilac  kept  slowly  swaying  its  beauty 
and  gently  flinging  its  fragrance  above  the  top  of  the  gar- 
den wall.  There  was  nobody  in  the  lane  to  watch  them, 
and  they  strolled  along  hand  in  hand,  turning  their  heads 
and  laughing  because  she  said  they  had  lost  their  shadows. 

They  sat  upon  a  baulk  of  timber  in  a  little  sandy  hollow 
by  the  river,  still  hand  in  hand,  and  talking  easily  and 
happily.  Then  the  sun  began  to  shine  on  them,  and  the 
whole  scene  became  astoundingly  pretty.  The  broad  river 
and  the  wooded  hills,  the  white  sand,  the  green  grass,  were 

165 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

all  of  a  pearl-grey  tint;  next  moment  there  came  sparkles 
and  flashes  across  the  water,  and  the  land  glowed  warmly; 
in  another  moment  the  true  colours  showed  themselves,  and 
numberless  unseen  things  burst  upon  the  eye — barges  and 
a  tug  at  anchor,  little  toy  houses  on  the  further  shore, 
and  a  diminutive  hurrying  train.  But  even  then  the  tints, 
though  bright,  were  transparently  pure — it  was  all  like 
the  most  delicate  water-colour  drawing.  And  for  a  little 
while  the  atmosphere  played  tricks  with  this  charming  pic- 
ture, bringing  back  the  greyness  and  indistinctness,  turning 
bright  tints  white  again,  making  outlines  quiver  tremulously 
beneath  the   impeded  sunshine. 

Alma's  face  was  very  pale,  and  her  lips  trembled.  "Oh, 
Lenny,  look.  Oh,  Lenny!"  Her  voice  came  in  a  whisper 
of    joy. 

They  sat  talking;  and  all  at  once  he  recognized  that 
the  flirtation  had  gone  down  a  wrong  turning.  It  was 
she,  and  not  he,  who  was  taking  things  for  granted.  Speak- 
ing of  the  view,  she  said  something  which  plainly  implied 
a  conviction  that  there  was  no  reason  why  both  of  them 
might  not  sit  side  by  side,  just  like  this,  and  look  at  the 
view  together,  twenty  years  hence. 

Childishly,  very  childishly,  she  had  taken  it  for  granted 
that  he  was  a  marrying  sort  of  man,  and  that  he  had  al- 
ready selected  her  for  his  mate.  Her  childishness  had 
landed  him  in  unexpected  difficulty.  It  made  him  very 
uncomfortable- — but  he  was  compelled  to  explain  matters 
there  and  then. 

She  gasped  with  surprise,  she  stared  at  him  stupidly, 
she  would  not  believe  it. 

"Lenny!  What  do  you  mean?  Aren't  you  really  fond 
of  me?    Don't  you  want  me  to  be  with  you  always?" 

Oh,  yes,  he  was  very  fond  of  her;  and  he  wanted  her 
perpetual  society; — but,  alas,  in  this  life,  one  cannot  have 

166 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

all  that  one  wants.    And  he  explained  how  for  him  marriage 
was  an  impossibility.     It  would  break  old  Calcraft's  heart. 

"Have  you  asked  him?"  Even  now  she  could  not  be- 
lieve it. 

"No,  I  know  it.  He  relies  on  me — it  would  be  a  breach 
of  trust  for  me  to  do  it." 

They  got  up  and  they  stood  face  to  face — she  very 
pale,  and  he  rather  red.  And  she  continued  to  stare  at 
him  in  stupid  wonder.  Then  her  face  became  redder  than 
his,  and  she  scrambled  up  the  sandy  bank  and  walked  fast, 
almost  ran  towards  her  home.  He  overtook  her,  held  her 
arm,  and  gently  restraining  her,  walked  by  her  side. 

"Alma,  I  didn't  understand — I  never  guessed — that  you 
were  looking  so  far  ahead.  Why  must  we  bother  about 
the  remote  future,  if  we  are  so  happy  together  now?" 

"Don't  speak  to  me,  please,"  said  Alma,  trying  to  shake 
off  his  hand,  trying  to  break  away  from  him.  "Of  course," 
she  gasped,  nearly  sobbed,  "I  oughtn't  to  have  met  you  in 
this  way.  I  oughtn't — oughtn't  to  have  let  you  kiss  me. 
Now  of  course  I  can  never  see  you  again." 

"Oh,  why  not?" 

He  did  not  see  her  for  three  days.  Then  they  met  by 
chance  on  the  sea-front  and  he  was  shocked  by  the  altera- 
tion in  her  appearance.  She  looked  as  though  she  had 
been  recovering  from  a  long  illness.  They  stood  talking 
for  a  few  minutes,  and  she  told  him  that  she  was  about  to 
leave  Westchurch.  Her  friend  Miss  Shipham  had  invited 
her  to  come  and  live  in  London. 

"Oh,"  he  said  lamely,  "this  is  quite  a  new  idea,  isn't  it?" 

She  did  not  answer,  and  there  was  an  awkward  pause. 
Then  she  said  something  that  gave  him  acute  discomfort. 
She  was  looking  at  him  intently,  and  she  spoke  quietly 
and  seriously,  as  if  uttering  the  most  natural  question  in 
the  world. 

167 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Lenny,  why  have  you  done  this  to  me?" 

"Done  what?" 

"Made  me  so  fond  of  you — when  you  didn't  mean  any- 
thing, but  just  to  amuse  yourself." 

He  felt  extremely  uncomfortable — much  as  he  used  to 
feel  when  he  shot  a  pheasant  and  failed  to  kill  it.  The 
poor  fluttering  maimed  bird,  unable  to  fly,  unable  to  die,  is 
a  horrible  evidence  of  your  clumsiness  so  long  as  it  remains 
in  sight. 

He  talked  heavily  of  the  enigmas  of  one's  life.  One 
is  not  free;  one  is  at  the  mercy  of  surrounding  circum- 
stances; one  tries  to  do  one's  best,  and  yet  now  and  then 
one  blunders.  Presently  he  asked  if  she  thought  she  would 
like  London  better  than  Westchurch ;  and  she  told  him  that 
it  had  become  impossible  for  her  to  stay  here  any  longer, 
and  that  no  doubt  London  would  suit  her  very  well. 

"I  understand.  .  .  .  But  what  are  you  going  to  do 
up  there?" 

She  would  find  work,  she  said,  to  occupy  all  her  time. 

"But  what  kind  of  work?  Have  you  decided  what 
the  work  is  to  be?" 

She  looked  at  him  before  she  answered. 

"The  work!  Why,  to  try  and  forget  you,  Lenny.  That's 
what  I  must  do — even  if  the  work  takes  me  the  rest  of 
my  life." 

Gone — and  a  very  faint  sense  of  relief.  No  other  way 
out  of  it.     He  could  not  be  sorry  that  she  had  gone. 

Then  came  regret,  slight  at  first,  but  steadily  growing 
stronger.  He  missed  her — more  and  more.  The  hot  sum- 
mer was  enervating.  As  he  walked  along  the  esplanade, 
he  felt  an  excessive  weariness — in  all  the  town  there  was 
not  a  single  girl  worth  looking  at.  And  always  he  was 
seeing  her  ghost.    A  graceful  figure  at  a  distance,  an  Alma 

168 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Reed  hat,  long  legs  approaching  rapidly — he  felt  his  heart 
begin  to  beat.  Could  she  have  unexpectedly  returned?  Oh, 
no.  The  gracious  ghost,  drawing  near,  disintegrated — the 
odious  living  reality,  as  it  passed,  nearly  turned  him  sick. 

He  did  not  write  to  her.  But  he  obtained  Frances 
Shipham's  address  from  Lady  Garbett,  and  went  up  to  Lon- 
don for  a  week-end. 

A  stifling  July  afternoon — so  hot  outside  in  the  street 
that  the  empty  hall  struck  cold.  He  paused  to  wipe  his 
forehead,  hesitated,  and  then  slowly  climbed  the  stone  stairs 
to  Miss  Shipham's  flat. 

Frances  was  out,  the  maid-servant  was  out,  Alma  opened 
the  door  to  him. 

"Lenny!"  It  was  a  little  cry  of  surprise,  reproach,  al- 
most of  fear.    "Oh,  Lenny,  why  have  you  come?" 

In  Miss  Shipham's  poor  little  room  she  looked  different 
again — an  Alma  with  new  attributes,  both  of  strength  and 
weakness;  more  of  a  woman,  less  of  a  child;  someone 
whose  mind  had  developed  and  whose  body  had  suffered 
during  great  pain.  Her ,  hair  was  done  differently,  and 
it  was  the  first  time  that  he  observed  the  faint  blue  circles 
about  her  eyes.  Standing  by  the  table  and  resting  her  hands 
on  a  large  portfolio,  she  seemed  to  droop  as  if  very  tired, 
or  exhausted  by  the  hot  weather. 

"Yes,  this  is  my  new  home."  She  spoke  in  staccato 
tones;  and  he  noticed  the  movement  of  her  bosom  beneath 
the  black  blouse,  as  of  a  person  who  is  breathless.  "Lenny, 
you  oughtn't  to  have  come."  She  kept  repeating  this. 
"Lenny,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  have  come." 

He  said  he  would  go  away  if  she  told  him  to  do  so; 
but  he  pleaded  for  permission  to  stay  just  for  a  little  while. 
.  Then,  nervously,  she  showed  him  Miss  Shipham's  ab- 
surd maps,  opening  the  portfolio  and  turning  the  big  sheets 
in  both  hands. 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Aren't  they  wonderful?  Social  economics,  you  know. 
Every  line,  every  shade  of  colour  has  a  meaning — textile 
manufactories,  iron,  coal  mines.  That's  the  poverty  line — 
the  whole  district  inside  the  line — desperately  poor!  You 
can  see  it  at  a  glance — if — if — you — have  the  key — if  you 
have  the  key." 

She  was  stooping  over  the  table,  with  the  back  of  her 
neck  exposed,  and  he  had  gently  touched  her  hair.  Then  he 
put  his  hand  on  her  neck;  and  she  did  not  move. 

"Alma!"  His  hand  softly  pressed  upon  her  neck  and 
held  it,  and  she  did  not  move. 

That  was  the  thrill  of  his  life — the  never-to-be-forgotten 
ecstasy — when  beneath  his  hand  she  remained  quite  mo- 
tionless, except  for  the  shiver  or  wave  of  fear  that  seemed 
to  run  along  her  spine. 

"Lenny — don't.     You  oughtn't  to  do  it." 

He  had  taken  her  from  the  table,  and  was  holding  her 
in  his  arms  by  the  wall  while  greedily  he  kissed  her  face 
and  lips. 

"Yes — and  you  must  kiss  me  too.     Kiss  me,  Alma." 

Very  soon  she  obeyed  him. 

"Is  it  wicked  of  me?  Lenny,  will  you  hate  me  now?" 
And  for  a  moment  she  clung  to  him.  "I  tried  to  get  on 
without  you.     But  I  felt  as  if  I  should  go  mad  or  die." 

She  seemed  to  become  limp  in  his  arms,  and  suddenly 
he  understood  that  she  was  giving  herself  to  him  absolutely 
— no  terms,  no  conditions,  surrender. 

He  remembered  every  one  of  his  thoughts,  as  gaily,  joy- 
ously, he  walked  away  from  the  ugly  pile  of  flats. 

He  realized  the  full  extent  of  his  good  fortune.  He 
had  obtained,  almost  without  an  effort,  that  which  most 
men  in  vain  crave  for,  sigh  for,  faint  for,  from  adolescence 
to   senile    decay — the    perfect    mistress.      Already   he   had 

170 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

sickened  against  the  travesty  of  love  that  is  a  matter  of 
bargain  and  sale.  A  necessity  perhaps,  if  you  can  get  noth- 
ing else;  but  fatiguing,  stupefying,  enervating;  dust  and 
ashes  for  which  you  pay  the  most  extravagant  price. 

But  he  determined  to  taste  his  raptures  cautiously. 
Everything  should  be  considered;  rashness  ought  to  be 
avoided;  certain  rules  must  be  laid  down.  They  were 
desirable  for  her  sake  as  well  as  for  his  own.  And  he 
would  be  always  kind  and  gentle  with  her;  always  grateful 
to  her.  And  some  day,  in  the  dim  future,  he  would  as- 
suredly put  everything  right,  by But  even  then,  during 

the  first  glow  of  his  delight,  he  shied  away  from  the  future. 

When  he  got  back  to  Westchurch,  he  found  the  whole 
place  transfigured,  radiant,  smiling.  The  heat  no  longer 
oppressed  him;  he  marched  up  and  down  the  parade  lightly 
and  untiringly.  Everybody  seemed  amusing  and  jolly.  It 
was  the  glorious  secret,  that  henceforth  he  carried  with  him, 
making  the  world  appear  harmonious,  entrancing,  magical. 
Alma  was  waiting  for  him  in  London.  He  might  go  to 
her  whenever  he  pleased.  She  was  counting  the  days  to 
his  return. 

And  so,  year  after  year,  she  made  him  happy  and  con- 
tented: his  life  could  not  be  dull  or  meaningless  while  it 
held  the  hidden  treasure  of  her  love. 

Whatever  he  might  think  of  the  gross  traffic  of  sensual 
joys,  he  knew,  or  fancied  he  knew,  that  he  was  a  man  who 
could  not  safely  deprive  himself  of  some  sort  of  association 
with  women.  When  he  had  not  the  reality,  longings  for 
imagined  delights  bothered  him.  But  a  little  of  reality 
satisfied  him.  Thus  he  had  swung  always  between  the 
weariness  of  fact  and  the  torment  of  fancy,  until  with  Alma 
he  found  the  just  equipoise  and  was  at  peace. 

He  adhered  to  what  he  called  their  rules — extracting 
all  the  bliss  that  may  be  enjoyed  without  danger  of  diffi- 

n  m 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

culty,  complications,  embroglios,  or  an  expansion  of  the 
secret  leading  to  discovery.  Perhaps  he  refused  to  weigh 
the  possibility  that  there  was  something  very  mean  in  cau- 
tion so  one-sided.  Perhaps  he  purposely  shut  his  eyes 
to  the  knowledge  that  she  suffered  under  his  prearranged 
limitations,  his  moderated  transports,  and  his  abrupt  reti- 
cences. But  certainly  he  never  for  an  instant  admitted 
the  idea  that  he  was  taking  everything  and  giving  nothing 
in  exchange. 


XVIII 

HE  moved  in  his  chair,  looked  down  at  St.  James's 
Street,  watched  people  on  the  opposite  pavement. 
Then  once  more  external  objects  faded,  and  he  re- 
sumed his  train  of  anxious  thought. 

Alma's  trick  of  taking  things  for  granted!  Yes,  that 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  all  his  trouble.  At  first  there  had 
been  no  bargaining,  no  promises  of  any  kind  whatever. 
But  again  Alma  was  taking  things  too  much  for  granted. 
Her  desire  was  to  be  with  him — that  was  her  recurrent 
phrase, — to  be  with  him,  whenever  possible  or  convenient 
now;  to  be  with  him  always,  later  on.  And  to  this  he 
agreed.  He  had  felt — for  a  long  time — that  he  could 
never  exist  without  her. 

At  first  she  did  not  talk  about  the  future;  she  was 
entirely  contented  in  the  present.  Hers  was  a  character 
very  difficult  to  understand.  It  was  firmer  and  stronger 
than  he  would  have  guessed.  He  had  anticipated  that  there 
might  be  remorseful  doubts,  occasional  repinings,  frequent 
reminders  about  the  conventions  and  proprieties  which  she 
had  consented  to  ignore.  But  no,  to  his  surprise,  she  be- 
trayed no  disquiet,  no  self-consciousness.  As  far  as  he 
could  penetrate  the  workings  of  her  mind,  she  was  proud 
of  herself — prouder,  a  great  deal,  than  in  the  early  days 
of  their  acquaintance.  She  had  adopted  the  doctrine  that 
he  was  fond  of  quoting  to  her.  Great  love  justifies  every- 
thing. She  admired  him  for  his  filial  devotion,  even  when 
it  grievously  upset  her  first  childish  hope.     Well  then,  she 

173 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

seemed  to  think  that  she  had  joined  now  in  Lenny's  sacri- 
fice, as  well  as  aiding  him  to  continue  it.  She  too  had 
sacrificed  herself  to  the  old  gentleman  in  the  Bath- 
chair. 

But  when  the  Bath-chair  should  become  empty?  Why, 
then  of  course  the  sacrifice  would  terminate  for  both  of 
them.  All  impediment  to  their  union  would  naturally  be 
removed. 

During  the  early  stages  this  was  never  said  in  words. 
Certainly  the  word  marriage  was  not  uttered  by  either 
of  them.  Probably  to  her  mind  it  went  without  saying. 
The  greater  included  the  less.  Why  not?  The  compan- 
ionship was  to  be  rendered  permanent;  and,  if  only  for  con- 
venience, they  would  legalize  the  bond  in  the  usual  man- 
ner. As  he  understood  most  thoroughly,  her  mind  was  de- 
void of  schemingness  or  artful  stratagem  when  she  thus  be- 
gan to  imply  the  existence  of  a  promise  which  he  had  never 
made.  And,  as  he  knew  well,  he  had  accepted  the  implica- 
tion.    His  silence  was  itself  a  pledge. 

He  was  frowning  now,  very  gently  biting  his  upper 
lip,  and  thinking  most  strenuously.  The  outside  world  had 
altogether  ceased  to  exist. 

Yes,  he  was  pledged  to  marry  her.  Not  a  doubt  of  it. 
But  supposing,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  he  wished 
to  get  out  of  it  for  good  and  all,  he  could  almost  say  there 
had  never  been  an  explicit  promise.  Tacit  admissions,  if 
you  like,  but  never  the  word  itself. 

Then  he  remembered  how  the  word  had  been  used.  Not 
only  vague  talk  of  where  they  might  live  some  day,  what 
kind  of  pretty  house  they  would  occupy,  what  species  of 
friends  they  would  select  for  their  social  circle,  but  also 
specific,  unchallenged,  compromising  scraps  of  sentimental 
chatter. 

"Lenny,  when  I  am  an  old  married  woman,  I  shall  ask 

m 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

you  to  bring  me  to  dine  at  this  restaurant.  As  a  birthday 
treat  perhaps!  We  won't  dress — we'll  come  just  as  we 
are  now,  and  sit  at  this  very  table.  And  our  past  will  spring 
to  life,  and  we  shall  feel  as  if  it  wTas  all  happening  again. 
You  will  look  round  the  room,  and  make  sure  that  there 
is  no  one  here  who  knows  you;  and  I  shall  tremble  a  little, 
in  fear  that  anybody  will  recognize  me;  for  a  moment  we 
shall  forget  that  there's  no  need  to  hide  ourselves,  that  the 
universe  is  welcome  to  see  us  and  envy  our  happiness.  When 
we  think  of  that,  we  shall  laugh ;  and  I  shall  slide  my  hand 
beneath  the  table  cloth  and  touch  your  knee — like  this, 
Lenny." 

And  he  had  not  checked  her.  He  had  allowed  her  to 
talk  in  this  style  many  more  times  than  once. 

Then  he  remembered  what  perhaps  he  had  often  sub- 
consciously tried  to  forget.  That  morning  at  his  rooms 
in  Albert  Street,  when  he  was  hurrying  home  to  the  dear 
invalid  and  she  came  and  made  a  scene,  he  had  himself 
used  the  word.  A  mistake !  But  his  emotional  stability  had 
been  upset;  he  was  full  of  joy;  the  reconciliation  with  his 
father  had  shaken  him  by  its  promptness; — and  then  when 
she  made  such  a  fuss,  he  said  anything  she  wished,  to  pacify 
her.  He  endeavoured  to  recall  his  exact  sentences.  No,  it 
was  not  worth  attempting  to  do  so.  He  knew  that  on  that 
occasion,  so  far  as  vows  and  pledges  were  concerned,  he 
had  compromised  himself. 

He  frowned  more  deeply,  and  bit  his  lip  a  very  little 
harder. 

He  was  arguing  the  case  on  both  sides — merely  exhaust- 
ing suppositions.  Suppose,  to  continue  the  argument,  he 
were  to  back  out  completely,  with  what  terms  would  she 
be  fairly  entitled  to  reproach  him?  A  complete  withdrawal 
would  be  a  terrible  disappointment  to  her.  Poor  Alma! 
His  heart  ached  when  he  thought  of  her  enduring  all  the 

175 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

pain  of  so  colossal  a  disappointment.     She  was  immensely 
fond  of  her  old  Lenny. 

And  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  as  fond  of  her  as  he 
had  ever  been.  If  not  quite  so  fond,  at  any  rate  very 
nearly.      Only,  he  no  longer  wanted  her.     Why? 

Difficult,  almost  impossible  to  answer.  Roughly — logic 
of  facts, — because  she  had  sustained  him  under  his  severe 
trial;  and  now  the  trial  was  over,  he  required  no  sustenta- 
tion.  His  one  desire  now  was  for  repose;  and  the  form 
that  this  idea  of  repose  was  slowly  assuming  appeared 
to  him  as  escape  from  all  claims  of  other  people,  all  care 
for  others,  all  anxiety  that  did  not  strictly  relate  to  himself. 
In  the  way  of  altruistic  solicitude,  he  had  so  to  speak  shot 
his  bolt.  He  felt  literally  incapable  of  beginning  again — 
even  on  the  smallest  scale.  The  marvellous,  long-continued 
achievement  of  protecting  and  tending  the  dead  man  had 
drained  him  of  energy.  There  was  not  an  ounce  of  it  left 
to  meet  fresh  demands. 

As  to  the  solace  of  love,  and  the  advantages,  if  not  the 
necessity,  of  female  companionship — well,  perhaps  he  was 
entering  a  new  phase.  The  old  life  had  exhausted  him, 
the  new  life  must  restore  him;  and  he  imagined,  felt  that 
an  element,  even  a  main  factor,  in  the  restorative  process 
would  be  the  charm  of  novelty.  Yes,  novelty — strange 
scenes,  untried  pleasures,  unfamiliar  faces.  On  his  travels 
he  would  meet  many  women — all  of  them  strangers,  of 
different  race,  of  alien  habits,  of  unusual  seductiveness. 
Some  love  might  come  before  he  got  home  again.  With- 
out emulating  the  sailor's  ambition  and  finding  a  wife  at 
every  port,  a  man  going  round  the  world  with  money  in 
his  pockets  cannot  fail  to  meet  eyes  that  will  languish  and 
hands  that  are  willing  to  interlace. 

He  thought  about  marriage  generally.  Of  course,  if 
Alma  had  substantial  means  of  her  own,  were  even  fairly 

176 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

well  off —  Can  anything  be  gained  by  blinking  a  fact  that 
every  man  of  the  world  readily,  unhesitatingly  admits? 
The  foundation  of  happiness  in  the  marriage  state  nowa- 
days is  an  ample  income.  Life  is  so  horribly  expensive; 
and  when  want  comes  in  at  the  door,  love  flies  out  of  the 
window.  A  cynical  proverb — but  the  dreadful  truth  of  it 
confirmed  by  the  most  casual  observation  of  one's  friends' 
experience. 

Supposing  that  he  persisted  in  the  quixotic  plan  to  de- 
nude himself  for  the  benefit  of  two  ungrateful  sisters,  he 
would  then  have  only  a  bachelor's  income  left.  How  can 
one  marry  on  nine  hundred  a  year?  Swiftly  he  was  con- 
fronted with  the  uninviting  pictures  of  a  dual  household 
conducted  on  such  narrow  funds.  A  horrid  little  flat — 
scarcely  tetter  than  Frances  Shipham's;  ill-cooked  food, 
unbrushed  clothes;  perpetual  economy,  never-ending  cal- 
culation; impossibility  to  afford  cab  fares,  theatre  tickets, 
restaurant  meals.  Half  a  dozen  times  in  the  year  he  might 
dine  at  his  club — the  coffee  room  three-shilling  dinner — 
and  feel  that  he  was  indulging  in  reckless  extravagance.  For 
months  they  would  be  forced  to  scrape  and  save,  if  they 
wished  to  lay  by  enough  for  a  summer  holiday.  And  then 
one  of  them  would  fall  ill,  and  the  doctor's  bill  would  blow 
their  seaside  trip  to  blazes.  They  would  sit  gasping  through 
the  August  heat,  creep  out  at  night  for  a  penny  ride  on 
an  omnibus,  grow  paler  and  more  nervous  and  irritable  every 
day.  .  .  .  And  then  perhaps  would  come  to  them 
the  blessing  of  children.  The  blessing — in  such  circum- 
stances! That  would  finally  sink  them  beneath  the  merci- 
less pressure  of  poverty.  Moves  to  cheaper  quarters;  resig- 
nation of  club;  shabby  garments,  bursting  boots,  broken 
hearts; — two  fools  who  once  refused  to  be  guided  by  com- 
mon sense,  and  are  now  what  you  see  before  you:  a  slat- 
ternly, fretful,  middle-aged  woman  and  a  ragged,  unkempt, 

177 


IN   COTTON  WOOL 

hollow-cheeked,  despairing,  elderly  man.     Oh,  what  a  hor- 
rible picture! 

If  Alma  were  rich  instead  of  being  poor—*-  But  what  is 
the  use  of  conjectural  fancies,  when  hard  facts  stare  one 
in  the  face? 

Gradually  the  resolution  had  formed  itself.  This  mar- 
riage must  be  postponed.  For  more  than  a  year — for  con- 
siderably longer  than  would  suffice  for  the  foreign  tour. 
The  doubt  concerning  his  health  was  a  valid  excuse.  What 
did  Dr.  Searle  say?  These  headaches!  Vital  need  of  cau- 
tion. 

As  the  determination  strengthened,  all  seemed  to  be- 
come lighter,  clearer.  The  oppressive  sensations  were 
swiftly  passing  away  from  him.  He  had  knocked  half  the 
weight  out  of  his  burden,  and  with  one  firm  effort  he  could 
throw  it  off  entirely.  He  would  explain  to  Alma  that  on 
the  score  of  health  he  must  delay. 

He  looked  down  into  St.  James's  Street.  It  was  bright 
and  gay,  full  of  well-dressed  people  bustling  joyously.  The 
marriage  must  be  postponed — indefinitely. 


XIX 


YET  he  postponed  announcing  the  postponement.  For 
five  or  six  days  he  continued  to  think  of  it,  and  his 
resolve  was  always  growing  stronger.  He  merely 
shirked   an  ordeal.      But   then   Alma   precipitated   matters. 

She  wrote  to  him ;  and  portions  of  her  letter  were  so 
prettily  expressed  that  they  brought  moisture  to  his  eyes. 
He  was  touched  by  her  candid  sincerity,  as  well  as  by  her 
unselfish  affection. 

"My  own  sweetheart," — As  he  read  it  he  could  hear 
her  voice — "You  are  making  me  most  miserable.  Why 
don't  you  come  to  me,  why  don't  you  summon  me,  why 
am  I  left  quite  alone?  What  should  naturally  have  brought 
us  together  seems  to  be  pushing  us  apart.  I  know  how 
deeply  you  still  mourn  your  father's  death;  but  why  may 
not  I,  who  grieve  for  you,  grieve  with  you?  Why  are  you 
holding  me  outside  your  sorrow? 

"Or  is  it  something  else,  some  other  trouble  that  you 
keep  back  from  me?  Yes,  I  think  it  is  something  more 
than  your  grief.  You  have  some  trouble,  and  you  won't 
trust  me  to  share  it.  Last  time  we  met  I  saw  it,  I  felt 
it — a  shadow  on  your  dear  face.  And  you  went  away 
with  it,  as  if  from  a  stranger  who  might  not  read  your 
thoughts,  or  as  if  from  a  friend  in  whom  you  had  lost 
confidence. 

"But,  my  darling,  when  have  I  ever  failed  you?  Why 
should  you  leave  off  trusting  me  ?  Do  come  to  me.  Do 
trust  me.    Tell  everything  to  your  poor  sad  little  Alma." 

He  was  in  for  it  now.     He  made  an  appointment  with 

179 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

her  for  the  afternoon  of  the  following  Saturday.     She  was 
to  come  to  his  hotel  at  half-past  three. 

He  received  her  in  a  private  sitting-room  j  and  while 
he  walked  about  it  and  nervously  awaited  her  arrival,  he 
thought  it  was  the  most  odious  room  that  he  had  as  yet 
been  compelled  to  make  use  of.  Its  luxuries  and  orna- 
ments were  so  purely  of  the  hotel  type,  so  little  homelike. 

"Ah!     .     .     .     Come  in,  Alma.     Here  I  am." 

At  sight  of  her  he  felt  himself  wavering.  She  was  all 
in  black.  She  wore  mourning  for  his  sake.  She  looked 
so  pale  and  unhappy,  and  she  came  to  him  with  such  a 
pretty,   graceful   haste. 

But  he  must  pull  himself  together,  and  attack  the  busi- 
ness in  hand. 

"Lenny.  My  Lenny."  She  had  raised  her  veil  to  kiss 
him — with  the  gestures  that  he  had  seen  a  thousand  times, 
— and  now  she  was  pointing  to  the  door  that  obviously 
communicated  with  adjacent  apartments.  "May  I  leave 
my  hat  in  there?" 

"That  is  not  my  bedroom.  They  couldn't  give  me  two 
rooms  together.     I  am  sleeping  on  the  third  floor." 

She  looked  at  him,  flushed,  and  became  pale  again. 

"Alma  dear,  let  us  sit  over  here;"  and  he  indicated 
a  hideous  sofa  covered  with  bronze  stamped  velvet.  "You 
asked  me  to  tell  you  everything — and  I'll  do  so.  But  I 
fear  what  I  have  to  say  will  distress  you." 

They  sat  side  by  side  on  the  sofa.  Automatically  he  had 
taken  her  hands  in  his,  and  he  noticed  that  they  were 
trembling. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered.  "Tell  me,  dear.  You — you 
frighten  me  by  your  seriousness." 

Then  he  began  about  his  health — describing  in  vague 
terms  its  very  unsatisfactory  condition. 

180 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"I  endeavoured  to  make  light  of  it.  I  didn't  speak 
of  it  to  anyone — not  even  to  Doctor  Searta — until  a  little 
while  ago.  Then  I  mentioned  what  a  specialist  had  said, 
and  how  I  struggled  not  to  take  a  gloomy  view,  myself; 
but " 

He  could  not  go  on.  Her  face  had  become  ashen  grey, 
her  eyes  were  distended  by  fear,  she  trembled  convulsively. 

"Oh,  my  darling,"  she  whispered,  "what  is  it?  What 
do   they  say  is  the  matter  with   you?" 

"Well,  the  doctors  don't  seem  to  know;"  and  he 
coughed,  to  clear  his  throat.  "But  they  advise  me  to  be 
very  careful — to  avoid  nervous  excitement — to  spare  myself 
as  much  as  possible." 

"Yes,  yes — no  doubt  that's  wise.  But,  Lenny — heart 
of  my  heart — do  they  hint  at  specific  danger  ?  Do — do  they 
seem  to  apprehend  some  disease  that  they  don't  yet  name?" 

"No."  And  the  words  were  forced  from  his  lips  by 
pity.  "Alma  dear,  I  mustn't  alarm  you  unnecessarily.  I 
don't  myself  think  that  it  is  anything  really  dangerous." 

He  was  observing  her  closely.  Her  fear  was  entirely 
unselfish.  It  was  fear  for  him.  As  yet  she  had  not  a  single 
thought  for  herself. 

"No,  no,"  she  said  rapidly.  "Of  course  nothing  really 
dangerous.  Dear  heart,  how  could  it  be — when  you  are 
so  big,  so  grand,  so  strong?  And,  Lenny, — I'm  not  fright- 
ened now — and  we  shouldn't  let  doctors  frighten  us.  They 
can't  always  be  relied  on — their  judgments,  I  mean.  But 
tell  me  exactly  the  sort  of  things  they  said." 

With  a  great  effort  she  was  regaining  calm ;  and  the  effort 
was  for  his  sake.  She  was  still  full  of  alarm;  but  she 
bravely  strove  to  conceal  it.  She  wished  to  put  courage 
into  him.  He  could  read  her  thought  quite  easily,  while 
she  asked  him  breathlessly  eager  questions. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said  frequently,  with  assumed  cheerful- 

181 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

ness.  "Oh,  I  won't  believe — I  don't  believe  there's  any- 
thing whatever  the  matter  with  you.  Why  should  there 
be?  No,  no — my  darling  is  just  feeling  the  effects  of  his 
sorrow;  but  it  will  pass  off,  Lenny.  Time  the  healer! 
Time  heals  all  wounds.  But,  Lenny,  we'll  go  to  other 
doctors — we'll  get  high  and  mighty  opinions;"  and  she 
smiled,  slid  her  arm  round  his  neck,  and  gently  sought  to 
draw  him  to  her. 

"Oh,  I  have  confidence  in  Searle.  And  doctors  at  the 
top  of  the  tree  aren't  always  the  best — Searle  said  so 
himself." 

"Yes,  but  my  Lenny  is  so  precious."  Her  arm  was 
about  his  neck — supple  and  warm  and  slender.  Her  voice 
had  a  new  note — something  full  and  deep,  suggestive  of 
the  motherly  protective  tone.  "My  Lenny  is  like  a  king — 
if  he  is  ill  or  thinks  that  he  is  ill,  all  the  doctors  in  the 
land  must  consider  his  case,  must  sharpen  their  wits,  and 
drag  out  their  finest  stores  of  learning  to  cure  him." 

And  his  resolution  wavered  again.  Her  unselfish  care 
for  him  was  profoundly  touching.  Other  friends  he  might 
find — temporary  friends  in  every  port, — but  where  and 
when  would  he  find  such  a  friend  as  this? 

Nevertheless  he  once  more  pulled  himself  together.  He 
had  prepared  himself  for  difficulty;  and  it  would  be  sheer 
weakness  to  renounce  the  attempt,  just  because  a  tone  of 
her  voice  seemed  to  vibrate  along  brain-paths  that  had  been 
worn  smooth  by  habitual  use.  He  summoned  all  his 
strength;  and  the  determination,  reinforcing  itself,  reached 
a  further  point  than  anything  he  had  hitherto  acknowledged 
as  its  ultimate  aim.  He  must  be  done  with  the  whole 
thing.     Now  that  he  had  begun,  he  must  finish  the  work. 

"My  dear  Alma,  I  want  no  more  doctors.  I  am  abso- 
lutely sure  that  I  ought  to  act  on  the  advice  that  has  been 
given  to  me." 

182 


IN    COTTON  WOOL 

"Yes — of  course.     What  do  they  advise?" 

"First  of  all,  I  am  to  go  away.  Searle  thinks  it  is  quite 
necessary — to  get  complete  change." 

"Yes."  Her  arm  tightened.  She  brought  her  face  nearer 
to  his;  and  now  he  saw  the  birth  of  a  fear  for  herself. 
"Yes,  yes,"  she  repeated.     "But  for  how  long?" 

"Oh,  a  longish  time — quite  a  long  time." 

"Am  I  to  go  with  you?" 

"No,  dear.     That  is  out  of  the  question." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  you  see,  the  fact  is — as  I  understand  my  state 
of  health" — He  again  cleared  his  throat,  and  paused.  "I 
am  not  well  enough  to  look  after  anybody  else.  The  advice 
is,  to  take  things  easily,  to  rest,  and  recuperate." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Oh,  right  away — probably  all  round  the  world." 

She  had  raised  her  other  arm,  and  she  locked  her  hands 
behind  his  neck. 

"Lenny,  take  me  with  you.  Think  what  it  would  mean 
to  me  if  you  left  me  here  to  wait  for  your  return."  She 
spoke  fast,  and  with  breathless  anxiety.  "I  should  be  in 
unceasing  dread.  You  say  a  long  time.  It  would  be  a  year, 
I  suppose.  And  in  every  minute  of  it  I  should  be  thinking 
of  you.  Is  my  darling  better?  Is  he  worse?  Letters 
would  come  so  slowly.  There  would  be  months  when  I 
should  have  no  news  of  you.  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't  live 
through  such  a  year." 

"I  fear  there  is  no  help  for  it.  I  honestly  feel  that  I 
ought  to  go." 

"Yes,  but  not  without  me.  Think!  It  is  just  when 
you  are  needing  me  most,  that  you  suggest  our  being  sep- 
arated. You  may  fall  ill — really  ill — far  away,  among 
strangers.  Oh,  I  couldn't  bear  it.  You  must  take  your 
Alma  to  nurse  you,  to  watch  over  you,  to  guard  you," 

183 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"My  dearest  girl,  how  can  you  possibly  go  with  me — 
unless  you  go  as  my  wife?" 

"Then  take  me  as  your  wife.  Why  not?  No  one  on 
earth  would  think  there  was  any  disrespect  to  your  father's 
memory  in  our  marrying  so  soon — we  have  waited  for 
years — what  can  a  few  months  matter  now?  Besides,  no 
one  need  know  of  our  marriage.  We  can  keep  it  secret 
till  we  come  back." 

"Alma,"  he  said,  heavily  and  sadly,  "you  don't  under- 
stand the  position." 

"Then  let  me  understand." 

She  said  the  words  slowly,  in  a  changed  voice.  She  was 
watching  his  face  intently;  her  fingers  seemed  to  become 
loose  upon  his  neck,   and  she   drew  her  hands  away. 

"Well,  I  fear — in  fact  it  is  unavoidable — that  this  jour- 
ney— voyage — upsets  all  old  plans — and  wishes.  It — and 
my  health  too,  of  course — necessitates  delay,  postponement. 
It  puts  off  our  marriage. — I  should  be  mad  to  marry  at 
the  present  time.  .  .  .  Dearest  girl,  I  can't  pretend 
that  what  I  have  to  say  won't  distress  you — as  it  does  me. 
.  .  .  But  with  regard  to  the  future —  Well,  I  doubt  if 
I  can  ever  marry.  I  doubt  if  I  should  ever  be  really  justi- 
fied in  marrying." 

While  he  spoke,  her  face  drooped  lower  and  lower,  till 
she  raised  her  hands  and  hid  it. 

"Lenny!" 

Her  voice  came  as  a  wail  of  pain. 

He  had  explained  things  at  length;  and  now  she  was 
lying  on  the  sofa  silently  weeping,  with  her  arms  stretched 
out  over  the  cushioned  end  of  the  sofa,  her  face  still  hid- 
den. The  pretty  Alma  Reed  hat  lay  on  the  floor,  trailing 
its  black  feathers  in  the  dust. 

He  looked  at  the  back  of  her  head — the  masses  of  dark 

184 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

hair  so  gracefully  bound  and  coiled.  He  was  dreadfully 
sorry  for  her;  but  it  seemed  better  that  she  should  have 
her  cry  out  undisturbed.  And  what  consolation  could  he 
offer,  since  his  determination  remained  unshaken? 

He  himself  was  sitting  near  the  fire,  which  he  had  just 
replenished  with  coals.  Watching  the  tongues  of  flame 
that  darted  forth  and  then  retreated,  he  thought  of  how 
firelight  had  associated  itself  in  the  memory  of  many  im- 
portant hours  of  his  life.  So  often  when  he  had  been 
undergoing  a  stress  of  emotion,  firelight  flickered  on  a 
wall,  a  ceiling,  or  somebody's  face. 

He  stared  vacantly  and  wearily  about  the  room.  Every- 
thing appeared  to  him  abominably  ugly — this  thick  carpet 
that  smelt  of  dust;  the  dingy  brocade  and  the  grubby  mus- 
lin of  the  curtains  at  the  window;  the  rickety  round  table 
that  concealed  its  uneven  legs  beneath  a  sage-green  cloth; 
the  imitation  Sheraton  sideboard,  displaying  spurious  china 
vases,  a  sham  fern,  and  a  painfully  real  wine  list.  All  so 
ugly!  And  the  ugliness  of  the  room  seemed  to  harmonize 
with  and  increase  the  ugliness  of  his  task. 

It  was  a  long  business.  Presently  he  went  over  to  the 
sofa,  and  began  to  stroke  her  hair. 

"Alma  dear!" 

She  made  an  inarticulate  moan. 

"Alma,  don't  cry.    Stop  crying — and  let  us  talk  quietly." 

He  was  very  tired;  but  he  thought  that  the  worst  of 
it  was  over.  Then,  to  his  surprise,  she  suddenly  sprang 
up  from  the  sofa. 

"I  can't  bear  it.    I  won't  bear  it." 

She  was  pacing  to  and  fro,  now  wringing  her  hands, 
now  waving  her  arms — looking  haggard,  dishevelled,  half 
insane;  and  the  next  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  back  at  the  very  starting-point,  and  that  the  thing 
must  be  begun  all  over  again. 

185 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Alma,   do  calm  yourself." 

As  she  turned  to  him,  the  violence  of  her  pain  translated 
itself  into  violent  gestures.  Her  face  was  distorted  by 
twitchings,  she  gasped  and  struggled  for  breath,  and  then 
there  came  a  rush  of  words  poured  out  in  passionate  revolt 
against  his  decision. 

"I  won't  submit  to  it.  You  are  not  ill.  That's  just 
an  excuse — a  cruel  trick,  a  senseless  invention.  You  are 
tired  of  me — and  you  snatch  at  any  pretence.  Oh,  yes — 
it's  too  shamelessly  transparent.  Very  likely  there's  some- 
body else — Yes,  that  would  be  a  reason.  And  I  count  for 
nothing,  if  you  can  make  me  submit — but  I  won't  sub- 
mit." 

"My  dear  girl — how  can  you  say  such  things?" 

He  would  not  have  recognized  her.  She  raged  and  wept 
at  the  same  time;  she  pleaded  and  stormed,  mingling  pite- 
ous prayers  with  wild  accusations.  The  accusations  were 
most  painful. 

"Alma,"  he  murmured,  "I  respected  you.  At  least  give 
me  credit  for  that.  No  one  can  say  there  was  anything 
really  wrong  between  us." 

Her  tear-stained  face  twitched  and  quivered;  and  she 
laughed,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  hysterically. 

"You  respected  me — but,  my  God,  at  what  a  cost  to 
me!" 

He  sat  limply  on  the  sofa,  his  hands  loose  between  his 
knees,  his  eyes  staring  at  the  dusty  carpet.  He  felt  dazed 
by  her  energy,  and  shocked  by  something  of  the  virago  per- 
ceptible in  these  passionate  recriminations. 

"And  it  isn't  true,  Lenny.  Respect!  You  dragged  me 
down  to  an  infamous  obliteration  of  self — vou  made  me 
do  vile  things." 

"Alma!" 

"You   have   unsexed    me   almost, — forced   me   to   stamp 

186 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

out  every  natural  instinct, — broken  me  in  to  a  low  slavery, 
instead  of  opening  my  life  to  wide  joys  and  noble  hopes." 

"I — I   simply  don't   understand  you." 

"You  have  held  me  on  the  threshold  of  marriage — of 
Nature's  union — for  seven  cruel  years,  while  all  that  was 
best  in  me  was  fading,  dying — and  now  you  are  tired  of 
the  plaything  you've  destroyed." 

"No.    Alma,  I  swear " 

"Nothing  wrong!  Lenny,  if  you  throw  me  over,  I  shall 
hold  myself  lower  and  cheaper  than  the  women  of  the 
streets.     They  would  never  have  been  so  subservient." 

"You  knew  my  circumstances — not  a  free  agent.  You 
knew  I  was  fond  of  you." 

"Fond  of  me!  And  love  was  to  justify  everything. 
We  both  said  it — our  love — to  last  for  ever.  You  are 
mine — nobody  else's:  just  as  I  am  yours.  And  I  won't 
give  you  up.     You  can't  make  me." 

She  looked  tragic  and  terrible;  and  he  pitied  her.*  But 
this  thing  must  end — he  was  more  determined  every  minute. 
His  head  had  begun  to  throb  and  ache — the  drain  upon 
nerve  currents  was  unbearable.  These  symptoms  prevented 
the  possibility  of  further  wavering.  A  dim  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  seeemed  to  drive  him  and  sustain  him.  Soon 
he  would  be  through  the  crisis.  Such  an  outburst  from  a 
naturally  gentle  and  docile  creature  could  not  last  long. 
But  he  understood  clearly  that  so  long  as  it  continued, 
there  would  be  a  plain  contest  between  them.  One  will 
must  triumph;  one  must  yield. 

"Alma  dear — if  only  we  could  talk  quietly,  if  you  would 
listen  to  reason." 

"Lenny,  have  mercy." 

There — in  another  moment  the  end  of  the  storm  had 
come.  The  violent  gestures  ceased;  her  features  were  com- 
posed again  almost  to  the  old  symmetry;  tears  streamed 
13  187 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

down  her  cheeks;  and  the  words  had  no  other  sound  than 
that  of  a  prayer. 

"Oh,  Lenny,  don't  do  it.  Be  true  to  me.  It's  too  wicked 
— too  monstrously  wicked." 

But  the  task  was  not  over  yet.  Now  she  lay  on  the 
sofa  again,  writhing,  twisting  about,  sobbing  convulsively, 
making  a  dreadful  noise.  Her  grief  was  like  the  howling 
and  wailing  of  a  beaten  child — her  sobs  were  as  loud  as 
screams. 

"Alma,  for  Heaven's  sake,  stop.  Control  yourself.  Peo- 
ple will  hear  you,  if  you  go  on  in  this  way." 

Indeed  he  felt  a  very  real  anxiety  lest  this  should  happen, 
and  he  implored  her  to  check  her  lamentations.  It  was 
just  about  tea-time;  at  this  hour  ladies  would  be  returning 
from  afternoon  calls,  and  taking  off  their  wraps ;  they  would 
be  going  in  and  out  of  the  rooms  all  along  the  corridor. 
One  of  them  would  hear  the  noise,  trace  its  source,  and 
then  go  racing  down  to  the  bureau,  and  tell  the  clerks  that 
a  man  was  maltreating  a  woman  in  Number  Forty-two. 

"Alma,  I  beg  of  you.     Please " 

He  could  not  silence  her,  and  when  there  came  a  tapping 
at  the  door  he  sprang  towards  it  full  of  consternation. 

"Alma,  jump  up.  Go  and  stand  by  the  window.  .  .  . 
Turn  your  back.  .  .  .  Don't  let  anyone  see  your  face  ;'* 
and  he  opened  the  door  just  sufficiently  to  let  himself  out 
into  the  corridor,  and  immediately  shut  the  door  behind 
him. 

But  it  was  only  the  floor-waiter,  inquiring  if  he  should 
serve  tea  in  the  sitting-room,  or  if  the  lady  and  gentleman 
proposed  to  drink  tea  and  enjoy  the  music  downstairs  in  the 
lounge.  The  waiter  did  not  appear  to  have  heard  any- 
thing unusual;  his  manner  betrayed  no  signs  of  wonder; 
but  Lenny  was  so  confused  that,  instead  of  promptly  get- 

188 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

ting  rid  of  him,  he  told  him  to  bring  tea  and  cakes  for 
two. 

Then  there  was  a  long  silent  pause,  a  truce  to  the  pitiful 
conflict,  while  Alma  sat  on  a  chair  by  the  window,  with  her 
back  turned  to  the  room. 

The  waiter  brought  tea-things,  fetched  a  white  cloth 
from  the  ugly  chiffonier,  very  slowly  laid  the  table;  and 
after  what  seemed  an  immense  time  brought  the  tea. 

She  would  not  drink  her  tea;  she  refused  to  eat  her  cake. 
The  meal  remained  untouched.  Lenny  could  not  feed 
alone — he  smoked  a  couple  of  cigarettes,  and  went  without 
the  nourishment  and  stimulant  that  he  undoubtedly  re- 
quired. 

It  was  nearly  dark  now.  For  a  long  time  he  had  been 
sitting  in  an  armchair  by  the  fire,  with  Alma  on  his  lap. 
She  had  wound  her  arms  round  him;  and  her  wet  face 
pressed  against  his,  so  that  he  was  bathed  with  her  tears. 

"Lenny,"  she  whispered,  "I  shouldn't  survive  it.  Truly 
I  believe  it  would  kill  me — or  I  should  kill  myself." 

"No,  no.  One  should  never  say  such  things,  even  though 
one  doesn't  really  mean  them." 

"But  I  do  mean  them." 

She  withdrew  her  face,  laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders, 
and  made  her  last  appeal. 

"Are  you  angry  with  me?  If  so,  forget — forgive.  One 
doesn't  think  what  one  says,  when  one  is  fighting  for  one's 
life.  That's  what  I'm  doing,  Lenny.  I  must  fight  for 
life — for  more  than  life.  But  in  all  else  I'm  the  same — 
your  little  Alma,  your  servant,  your  slave." 

There  was  just  sufficient  light  to  see  her  face — the  white 
oval  that  narrowed  so  quickly  to  the  soft  chin,  the  delicate 
nose,  the  pretty,  sensitive  mouth  with  the  pathetic  droop 
at  the  corners  of  the  quivering  lips.     How  well,  how  long 

189 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

he  had  known  its  changing  expressions  that  passed  swiftly  as 
sunshine  and  shadows  beneath  the  dark  cloud  of  hair. 

"Alma,  I  shall  be  grateful  to  you  as  long  as  I  live." 

"Yes,  but  let  me  live  too." 

She  was  tragic  still;  but  it  was  a  tragic  sweetness.  The 
other,  the  tragic  violence,  he  had  been  able  to  withstand; 
but  this  melted  his  heart  completely,  lacerated  his  tender- 
est  feelings.  Her  voice  seemed  to  vibrate  deep  inside  him, 
and  she  was  caressing  him  all  the  time  that  she  pleaded 
so  despairingly. 

"If  you  don't  want  to  marry  me,  let  us  go  on  as  we 
are." 

"No,  that  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you." 

"Yes,  it  is  what  I  ask.     I'll  never  complain." 

"Oh,  no — It  would  spoil  all  your  chances  of  happiness. 
I  have  to  think  of  you  as  well  as  of  myself.  I  am  not 
everybody." 

"You  are.    You  are." 

He  was  torn  with  pity.  And  as  she  went  on,  in  the  same 
sweet  tragic  tone,  he  felt  astonished  by  her  power  of  lan- 
guage. It  seemed  as  though  anguish  gave  her  a  strange 
eloquence.  But  nothing  could  really  shake  him.  An  ob- 
stinate deep-seated  instinct  of  self-protection  was  steadily 
controlling  him.  Even  now  he  felt  those  cerebral  sensa- 
tions of  immense  fatigue — a  fullness,  a  closeness, —  a  heavy, 
throbbing  discomfort  throughout  his  head.  He  must  be 
done  with  it. 

"Lenny,  my  love,  my  life,  don't  leave  me  without  hope." 

She  slid  from  his  lap  to  her  knees,  knelt  between  his 
legs  in  her  characteristic  attitude,  and  raised  her  hands  to 
his  breast.  The  flicker  of  firelight  played  about  her  hair; 
and  his  pity  for  her  became  burningly,  torturingly  intense. 

"I'll   be  brave,    Lenny.      I   won't   worry  you.     I   have 

190 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

waited.  I  will  go  on  waiting.  .  .  .  But  I  want  to 
know  that  we  shall  be  together  towards  the  end  of  our 
lives.  Perhaps  not  married  even  then;  but  together,  under 
one  roof,  when  the  shadows  begin  to  close  in  on  us.  Then 
when  the  darkness  parts  us,  if  it  is  I  who  go  first,  I'll  wait 
very  near — always  near  you — till  we  can  pass  together  into 
another  existence." 

"My  sweet  Alma!" 

"You  and  I  have  found  each  other  in  this  maze  of  life. 
It  is  fate — our  joint  destiny — and  we  shouldn't  try  to 
break  its  thread.  We  have  comforted  each  other.  Two 
little  sparks  that  were  drawn  together,  to  make  a  tiny 
flame  in  the  eternal  night!  Don't  let  us  be  false  now  to 
what  the  vast  unseen  powers  have  decreed.  ...  I  don't 
believe  in  God  as  I  used  to  do — Lenny,  you  don't  believe. 
You  took  my  faith  from  me.  You  were  my  religion. 
.  .  .  But  there  it  something — some  guiding  force — some 
ruling  law  that  we  cannot  safely  defy.     .     .     ." 

"Alma,  you  are  making  it  so  horribly  difficult." 

Kneeling,  she  seemed  such  a  fragile  thing — the  thing 
that  loved  him.  Her  fingers  pulled  and  pressed,  seemed  to 
drag  at  his  heart-strings. 

"Alma  dear,  what  more  can  I  say?  I  have  lain  awake 
night  after  night,  trying  to  see  any  other  way  out  of  it. 
But  I  couldn't." 

"Lenny — my  sweetheart,  my  own  one." 

His  head  throbbed  dolorously,  his  whole  brain  was  hot 
and  full,  his  thoughts  flashed  erratically.  The  task  had 
become  insupportable.  It  was  like  beating  off  a  dog  that 
swam  behind  a  boat.  Such  things  happen — merciless  bru- 
tality! How  are  they  possible?  But  self-protection? 
Safety?  Men  are  forced  to  abandon  their  dogs  sometimes, 
in  order  tojsave  their  own  lives. 

191 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Alma!"  His  voice  was  hoarse  and  strained.  "There's 
no  help  for  it — none  whatever.  We  can't  go  on.  It  must 
be  good-bye." 

Finished  at  last.  He  had  just  put  her  into  a  cab,  and 
was  coming  back  through  the  crowded  hall.  He  felt  dazed 
and  confused  in  the  midst  of  the  noise  and  animation  that 
surrounded  him;  and  he  sank  wearily  upon  a  divan  behind 
a  pile  of  luggage,  to  rest  himself. 

A  gay  scene.  He  watched  it  stupidly — porters  bringing 
in  more  and  more  luggage;  a  stream  of  visitors  from  the 
continental  train;  Americans,  Frenchmen,  Germans,  send- 
ing telegrams,  shouting  names,  clamouring  for  the  bureau; 
the  huge  golden  gates  of  the  lift  opening  and  shutting,  dis- 
gorging established  residents,  swallowing  exhausted  travel- 
lers; young  girls,  already  dressed  for  dinner,  waiting  with 
obese  mammas  near  the  door  of  the  vast  coffee  room ;  young 
men  hurrying  towards  them,  carrying  white  fluffy  cloaks, 
laughing,  offering  nosegays,  chattering  of  theatre  tickets; 
the  string  band  striking  up  with  a  soft  crash,  and  gliding 
smoothly  in  a  valse  tune;  music,  laughter,  bright  light,  the 
pulse  of  life  beating  strong. 

He  got  up,  and,  moving  heavily,  joined  the  rapid  stream 
of  people  that  still  flowed  towards  the  lift. 

He  was  done — dead  beat.  He  gave  up  all  thought  of 
going  to  the  club;  dined,  very  simply,  in  the  hotel  grill- 
room; and  went  to  bed  immediately  after  his  coffee  and 
liqueur. 


XX 


IT  was  over.  But  all  next  day,  Sunday,  he  was  thinking 
of  her,  in  imagination  seeing  her.  Would  she  go  out? 
Would  she  lie  on  her  bed,  face  downward,  weeping? 
Would  Frances  Shipham  sit  by  her  side  and  pat  her  hand, 
and  vainly  try  \o  console  her,  by  saying  that  her  loss  was 
no  real  loss;  that  she  was  lucky  to  escape  from  someone 
who  had  never  been  worthy  of  her;  that  it  was  a  blessing 
in  disguise?  Of  course  she  would  tell  everything  to  Fran- 
ces Shipham,  and  Frances  would  be  tremendously  indignant. 

He  quite  expected  interference  from  Frances;  would  not 
have  been  surprised  had  Frances  come  down  to  call  upon 
him  at  the  club.  But  no  one  came  to  the  club;  no  one  at- 
tempted to  trouble  him  any  further. 

He  felt  almost  sure  that  Alma  would  write  to  him — a 
last  letter  of  farewell, — a  long  sad  letter  that  would  cause 
pain  in  the  reading.  Very  likely  she  was  writing  it  now, 
blotting  it  with  her  tears;  or  perhaps  already  it  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  postman.  She  would  send  it  to  the 
hotel,  or  possibly  here  to  the  club. 

He  had  finished  the  task  for  ever — that  was  his  first 
thought,  when  he  woke  on  Monday  morning.  Everything 
over  and  done  with.  But,  somehow,  he  did  not  yet  feel 
quite  easy  in  his  mind.  The  burden  gone,  yet  some  discom- 
fort remaining — perhaps  only  the  memory  of  past  weariness. 

No  letter  from  Alma  came  to  the  hotel,  and  there  was 
no  letter  waiting  for  him  at  the  club.  He  read  the  news- 
papers, lounged  about  the  library,  strolled  from  one  room 

193 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

to  another,  but  did  not  care  to  go  out  of  doors.  He  talked 
to  one  or  two  members,  but  found  that  his  mind  wandered; 
he  could  not  pin  his  attention.  When  a  man  told  him  an 
amusing  anecdote,  he  failed  to  laugh  at  the  right  place; 
he  stared  with  a  fixed  smile  on  his  lips,  but  no  intelligence 
in  his  eyes.  "You  don't  see  the  point,  eh?  It  was  his 
mother-in-law — the  person  he  met,  don't  you  know,  when 
he  opened  the  door,  was  his  mother-in-law."  And  the 
story-teller  himself  laughed  heartily.  "It  struck  me  as 
devilish  good."  Then  Lenny  laughed  too,  confessed  he 
had  been  slow  to  see  the  point,  but  said  that  the  anecdote 
was  undoubtedly  devilish  good. 

Some  vague  unformulated  idea — something  sinister  and 
ugly  seemed  to  be  lying  in  the  background,  dulling  the  edge 
of  all  his  perceptions.  Going  downstairs  for  the  purpose  of 
weighing  himself  in  the  hall,  he  thought  of  her.  Poor  girl! 
She  would  be  at  the  office  now,  working — working  hard; 
and  he  seized  at  the  notion  suggested  by  Frances  Shipham. 
The  work  would  occupy  her;  she  would  not  suffer  while 
at  work.     .     .     .     But  perhaps  she  had  not  gone  to  work. 

He  forgot  his  intention  of  weighing  himself.  He  passed 
the  machine  without  looking  at  it;  went  into  the  morning- 
room,  and  roamed  from  table  to  table,  picking  up  the 
leather-covered  journals,  and  putting  them  down  again, 
mechanically.  Had  Alma  gone  to  work?  He  wished  that 
he  could  know  for  certain. 

It  was  after  lunch,  and  he  stood  by  one  of  the  tele- 
graphic tape  instruments,  watching  the  long  paper  ribbon 
as  it  clicked  out  and  fell  like  an  endless  snake  upon  the 
tessellated  pavement.  Soon  a  servant  would  come  and 
make  the  snake  all  straight  and  tidy,  cut  it  into  regular 
lengths,  and  pin  them  on  one  of  the  news  boards.  Lenny 
picked  up  the  ribbon,   let  it  slide  through  his  hand,   and 

194 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

idly  glanced  at  the  printed  words.  General  news,  not 
Racing  or  Stock  Exchange!  This  would  go  on  the  centre 
board. 

Suddenly  a  word  on  the  tape  seemed  to  glow  like  fire. 
Suicide ! 

Lenny  felt  as  if  he  had  received  a  paralytic  stroke,  as  if 
his  head  was  bursting  open,  as  if  that  dark  thought  that  he 
had  been  harbouring  all  day  had  exploded  into  an  over- 
whelming conflagration.     Was  it  chance  or  fate? 

He  lifted  the  tape  with  shaking  hands,  and  read  the 
whole  of  the  message.  "Suicide  and  gallant  attempted 
rescue.  11.45.  Well-dressed  young  woman  threw  herself 
over  London  Bridge.  Fireman  G.  F.  Smith,  of  tug  River 
Queen t  dived  overboard,  and  brought  body  to  shore,  but  life 
was  already  extinct.  Body  now  lying  at  Tower  Steps 
Mortuary;  not  yet  identified." 

His  hands,  jerking  spasmodically,  had  torn  the  tape.  For 
a  moment  he  leaned  against  the  wall,  and  with  difficulty 
prevented  himself  from  falling  upon  the  instrument.  All 
strength  had  gone  out  of  his  legs,  every  drop  of  blood 
seemed  to  be  drawn  away  from  his  heart.  He  thought 
that  he  was  going  to  faint,  or  to  have  a  fit. 

Presently,  however,  he  was  safely  seated  on  a  couch  in 
the  morning-room,  wiping  his  forehead  with  a  silk  handker- 
chief, and  trying  to  think  sanely  and  quietly  about  the 
unknown  woman  who  had  jumped   from  London  Bridge. 

Impossible!  Utterly  impossible.  Not  for  a  moment 
longer  would  he  entertain  this  abominable  nerve-shattering 
fear.  She  never  could  or  would  do  such  a  thing — never, 
never.  Then  the  fear  shook  him  again.  Why  had  he 
been  so  uneasy  yesterday  and  to-day?  It  was  the  possibility 
of  some  such  appalling  catastrophe  that  had  lurked  for 
thirty-six  hours  in  the  dark  background  of  his  mind.  And 
the  clammy  horror  made  him  break  into  another  cold  per- 

195 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

spiration,  as  he  remembered  her  own  words — "Don't  leave 
me  without  hope.  ...  It  would  kill  me — or  I  should 
kill  myself."  But  she  did  not  mean  what  she  said.  Women 
say  these  things,  but  they  never  mean  them;  never,  never. 
Then  he  distinctly  felt  his  heart  stop  beating,  and  he  was 
almost  certain  that  this  time  he  really  would  faint.  He 
had  remembered  her  answer  to  that  consoling  idea.  "But 
I  do  mean  it." 

The  minutes  seemed  as  long  as  hours,  but  gradually 
he  was  recovering  possession  of  his  faculties.  He 
was  succeeding  in  his  effort  to  rid  himself  of  baseless 
fears. 

A  diabolical  coincidence — one  of  those  tricks  of  chance 
by  which  facts  appear  suddenly  to  blend  with  fancies. 
When  one  is  in  a  morbidly  anxious  state,  the  mind  loses 
all  power  of  rejecting  improbabilities.  It  will  accept  as 
the  truth  any  circumstance,  however  unlikely,  provided 
that  the  circumstance  bears  the  colour  or  matches  with 
the  drif;:  of  one's  previous  thoughts.  Why  London  Bridge? 
Miles  away  from  her  place  of  business — out  of  the  line  of 
any  direction  that  she  could  possibly  have  taken  when  going 
from  her  home.  What  should  she  want  in  the  city?  If 
any  bridge,  it  would  have  been  Westminster  Bridge.  Then 
he  remembered  the  words  of  description  on  the  tape.  "Well- 
dressed  young  woman."  That,  of  course,  meant  some  poor 
soul  just  decently  clad,  but  belonging  to  the  humbler 
classes — a  shop  girl — a  work  girl — a  waitress.  If  it  had 
been  she,  they  would  unquestionably  have  described  her  as 
a  lady.  They  would  have  made  a  fuss  about  it,  instead  of 
recording  it  as  a  distressing  but  quite  usual  occurrence. 
Poor  young  women — they  are  going  over  bridges  almost 
every  day. 

Soon  he  was  able  to  get  up  from  the  settee,  to  walk 
quite  steadily  into  the  hall,  and  to  look  at  the  tape  again. 

19a 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Yes — "Body  not  yet  identified."  Never  to  be  identified, 
perhaps.  Tower  Steps  Mortuary!  Of  course  one  could 
go  there  and  see  for  oneself — but  that  thought  struck  cold, 
and  made  his  legs  feel  very  weak  again. 

The  fear  had  altogether  gone.  He  was  upstairs  in  the 
billiard-room;  and  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  warm- 
ing himself.  There  were  half  a  dozen  people  in  the  room. 
A  member  had  craved  permission  to  finish  a  game  that  he 
was  playing  with  the  marker. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Lenny,  "of  course.  I  don't  want  to 
play  myself,  and  I  always  enjoy  watching  a  good  game. 
How  many  points  is  he  giving  you?" 

"Fifty  in  the  hundred.  ...  By  Jove — he  has  missed 
it!" 

The  marker  had  broken  down  at  a  long  losing  hazard, 
and  Lenny  asked  him  the  amount  of  his  break. 

"Thirty-seven,  sir." 

"Well  done." 

The  fear  had  completely  gone.  He  was  ashamed  of 
himself  for  being  so  readily  upset.  It  was  his  anxiety  for 
her  ultimate  welfare  that  had  rendered  him  so  morbid  and 
sensitive.  Nothing  could  better  prove  how  great  his  fond- 
ness had  been  than  the  rapidity  with  which  he  had  been, 
upset  by  an  idea  of  danger  befalling  her.  But  it  was  an 
insult  to  her  to  suppose,  even  for  a  moment,  that  she  would 
commit  so  enormous  a  sin.  She  might  threaten  it,  but 
the  natural  loftiness  and  balanced  strength  of  her  mind 
would  infallibly  prevent  her  from  carrying  the  threat  into 
execution.  While  he  had  been  shaking  with  unfounded 
horror,  no  doubt  she  was  quietly  working  at  the  office  of 
the  Association — perhaps  so  absorbed  in  her  labours  that 
every  thought  of  him,  every  thought  of  her  life  outside 
the  office,  was  completely  shut  out.     At  this  moment  she 

197 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

was  there — really  only  a  mile  away  from  him — quietly,  com- 
fortably working. 

He  had  gone  downstairs  again,  and  he  was  now  in  the 
secluded  lobby  behind  the  hall,  where  members  did  their 
telephoning.  There  were  two  or  three  instruments,  each 
contained  in  a  small  glass  room,  so  that  you  could  shut 
yourself  up  in  a  neatly-contrived  silence,  while  you  talked 
about  private  matters  to  distant  friends.  It  was  all  very 
simple  and  easy.  But  Lenny  had  provided  himself  with 
one  of  the  servants — a  clever  page-boy — to  assist  him.  The 
boy  was  in  the  box  working  the  instrument,  and  Lenny 
stood  at  his  elbow,  instructing  him  as  to  what  he  should 
say  now  that  he  had  obtained  the  correct  number. 

"Is  that  the  Hygienic  Home  Association?  .  .  .  Yes, 
sir/'  said  the  boy,  "it's  them." 

Then  Lenny  prompted  him,  and  the  boy  did  all  the  talk- 
ing. 

"We  want  to  inquire  about  the  new  pamphlet.  The 
Garden  City  pamphlet.  Is  it  published  yet?  Can  we 
speak  to  the  secretary  who  attends  to  the  pamphlets.  .  .  . 
Is  Miss  Reed  there?     Can  we  speak  to  Miss  Reed?" 

The  boy  turned  round.  "He  says  hold  the  line.  Miss 
Reed  is  somewhere  in  the  building.  They  are  fetching 
her."    And  he  offered  the  receiver  to  Lenny. 

Lenny  refused  it.  "Wait,"  he  said,  "till  they  say  Miss 
Reed  is  there,  then  I  will  take  it." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Lenny  had  brought  out  his 
silk  handkerchief,  and  he  was  drying  the  palms  of  his  hands. 
He  continued  to  roll  the  handkerchief,  and  rub  with  it, 
until  the  boy  turned  to  him  again. 

"Here  you  are,  sir;  she's  at  the  wire  now." 

Then  Lenny  took  the  receiver,  put  it  to  his  ear,  and 
heard  her  voice. 

198 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"I  am  Miss  Reed  speaking.  Who  is  it?  .  .  .  Who 
is  it?     .     .     .     Who  is  it?" 

Her  voice!  No  one  else's.  He  would  have  recognized 
it  among  millions  of  voices.  He  pushed  the  receiver  back 
into  the  boy's  hand,  and  whispered  the  next  prompting. 

"Say:  'It  doesn't  matter.  We  want  the  new  pamphlet, 
but  we'll  call  for  it.'  .  .  .  That's  all.  Hang  it  up. 
Cut  it  off.  That's  all.  .  .  .  Thank  you.  I'm  much 
obliged.     Many  thanks." 

Lenny  put  the  handkerchief  in  his  pocket,  and  went  up- 
stairs again — to  the  library  this  time. 

■  The  sound  of  her  voice  had  affected  him  strangely — so 
distinct,  yet  so  remote.  Something  mysterious  and  won- 
derful in  this  communication  with  a  familiar  but  invisible 
person — almost  what  one  might  conceive  as  characteristic 
of  a  ghost's  voice.  Had  she  been  really  dead,  he  might  have 
imagined  hearing  her  thus  speak  to  him — a  few  words — 
quite  unmistakably  her  voice,  and  then  silence. 

He  chose  a  writing-table  in  a  corner,  and  began  to. 
write  to  her.  It  was  a  difficult  letter.  He  knew  what 
he  wanted  to  say,  but  the  difficulty  was  to  find  exact  ex- 
pression— not  to  say  too  much  or  too  little.  He  intended 
that  the  gist  of  the  letter  should  be  an  answer  to  one  of 
her  most  poignant  entreaties — "Don't  leave  me  without 
hope."  His  recent  fear,  although  fundamentally  absurd, 
pointed  to  the  wisdom  of  doing  all  that  he  could  to  guard 
against  its  possible  recurrence.  He  had  perhaps  been  im- 
prudent, even  unkind,  in  so  firmly  closing  the  door  upon 
the  future. 

He  made  several  false  starts.  Indeed,  a  lot  of  the  nice 
club  notepaper  lay  in  the  waste-paper  basket  before  he 
got  fairly  going.  Then  emotion  gained  on  him,  and  he  be- 
gan to  write  faster.     .     .     .     "My  reason  for  insisting  that 

199 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

we  should  take  our  parting  as  absolutely  final  was  con- 
sideration for  your  future  happiness.  Since  I  could  not  as- 
sure it  myself,  I  wished  to  leave  it  quite  untrammelled;  it 
seemed  to  me  that  it  would  be  very  wrong  if  I  held  out 
hopes  which  I  probably  would  never  be  able  to  fulfil.  Of 
course,  later  on,  in  a  few  years,  if  my  health  ceased  to 
trouble  me,  we  might  meet  again  and  renew  the  compan- 
ionship which  has  been  so  sweet  in  the  past.  But  how 
can  I  ask  you  to  wait  for  what  would  be  a  vague  chance? 
To  accept  such  abnegation  on  your  part  would  be  the 
height  of  selfishness  on  mine,  because  the  indefinite  link 
with  me  would  preclude  you  from  making  fresh  ties.  I 
know  such  an  idea  is  far  from  your  mind  now.  But  re- 
member what  you  said  yourself.  Time  is  the  great  healer. 
Time  heals  all  wounds." 

The  pen  seemed  to  be  driven  for  a  little  way  now  by 
a  most  generous  impulse. 

"And  do  not  doubt  that  I  am,  and  shall  ever  be,  grate- 
ful to  you.  I  feel — bitterly  enough — that  without  intend- 
ing to  treat  you  badly,  I  have  been  an  unlucky  influence 
in  your  life.  But,  Alma  dear,  we  are  all  such  puppets  of 
fate.  My  own  fate  has  been  hard  in  many  respects,  be- 
cause it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  deprived  of 
the  power  to  govern  events,  however  trivial,  and  I  have 
drifted  inexorably  on  currents  that  I  did  not  select,  and 
could  not  escape." 

He  paused,  and  blew  his  nose.  That  last  sentence, 
though  long  and  slightly  involved,  struck  him  as  fine. 

"Since  Saturday  I  have  thought  of  you  very  often,  and 
with  hesitation  I  now  suggest  that  if  you  really  wish  to 
build  on  the  frail  chance  that  fate  may  once  more  bring 
us  together,  I  do  not  feel  strong  enough  to  persist  in  asking 
you  not  to  do  so.  You  are  stronger  than  I  am — I  have 
always  known   it, — less  susceptible   to  ups   and   downs  of 

200 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

temperament  and  changes  that  are  induced  by  the  fluctuat- 
ing hazard  of  circumstance." 

He  paused  again.    That  sentence  could  not  be  improved. 

"So,  dear  Alma,  I  must  leave  it  to  you  after  all.  You 
must  choose  whether  there  shall  be  this  small  hope  left, 
or  no  hope  at  all.  I  will  endorse  your  choice,  whichever 
it  may  be.  Send  me  a  line  then  soon,  to  say  if  it  is  au 
revoir,  or  good-bye." 

Nothing  from  her  next  day.  Nothing  on  the  day  after 
— till  late  in  the  afternoon.  Then,  returning  to  the  hotel 
about  tea-time,  he  found  her  letter  waiting  for  him.  He 
took  it  with  the  bedroom  key  from  the  clerk  at  the  bureau, 
and,  instead  of  going  upstairs,  walked  hurriedly  into  the 
lounge. 

The  band  was  playing  its  lively  dance  music,  the  whole 
place  was  noisy  and  crowded.  Lenny  carried  his  letter 
from  the  lounge  to  an  empty  drawing-room,  and  sat  down 
all  by  himself  to  read  what  Alma  had  to  say  to  him.  But 
he  did  not  immediately  open  the  envelope.  He  held  it  in 
his  hand,  turned  it  about,  studying  the  well-known  hand- 
writing, thinking  of  the  hundreds,  the  thousands  of  letters 
that  had  been  written  to  him  in  the  same  hand. 

So  many — so  very  many  of  them!  They  used  to  lie  on 
the  table  in  the  hall  at  Westchurch.  Whenever  he  came 
in  from  a  walk,  he  looked  at  the  table  to  see  if  there  was 
one  there.  He  liked  them  best  when  they  came  in  the 
morning;  when  the  servants  brought  them  to  him  with 
his  tea  and  bread  and  butter.  Of  course  the  whole  house- 
hold must  have  recognized  the  fact  that  he  had  a  regular 
correspondent  up  in  London.  Perhaps  some  of  them  had 
tried  to  guess  who  this  assiduous  letter-writer  might  be. 
Certainly  his  father  must  have  noticed  the  letters,  and 
drawn  his  own  conclusions.     None  of  them  knew  the  hand- 

201 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

writing.     None  of  them  ever   pierced   the  little  mystery. 

And  he  remembered  how  one  day,  after  luncheon,  he 
had  told  Mary  that  if  any  letters  came  for  him,  they  were 
to  be  sent  upstairs  to  his  bedroom,  and  not  left  lying  about 
in  the  hall.  That  had  been  a  wise  foresight — guarding 
against  an  accident.  There  was  to  be  a  drawing-room  meet- 
ing; Mrs.  Reed  and  her  daughters  were  expected.  One 
could  not  be  too  careful.  Had  the  stepmother  happened 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  one  of  Alma's  letters,  it  might  have 
set  her  conjecturing;  suspicion  might  have  been  roused; 
two  and  two  might  have  been  put  together — the  fat  might 
have  been  in  the  fire. 

At  last  he  opened  the  envelope,  unfolded  the  paper,  and 
read  her  answer.  Two  words  only,  in  the  middle  of  the 
page.  He  sat  staring  at  them,  and  thinking  about  them* 
for  a  long  time. 

"Good-bye.     Alma." 


XXI 


REALLY  and  truly  over  and  done  with  now. 
On  these  bright  autumn  mornings  the  whole  world 
seemed  again  to  smile  at  him— that  cheerful  smile 
of  autumn,  like  the  pleasant,  casual  greeting  of  a  jolly 
companion,  nothing  passionate  or  oppressive  or  languorous 
in  it.  The  air  was  crisp  and  light — just  warm  enough  to 
make  it  agreeable,  just  cold  enough  to  make  it  stimulating. 
His  footsteps  were  firm  and  strong,  with  more  springiness 
than  Tie  had  felt  for  ages. 

Between  his  early  breakfast  at  the  hotel  and  his  proper 
breakfast  at  the  club,  he  used  to  take  a  stroll — up  the  Hay- 
market,  through  Piccadilly  Circus,  then  a  peep  of  Regent 
Street,  across  behind  Burlington  House,  and  then  south- 
wards,— not  a  long  ramble,  merely  sufficient  exercise  to 
sharpen  the  edge  of  one's  appetite.  The  flower  girls  at  the 
Circus  with  great  baskets  of  chrysanthemums  made  a  little 
market  that  one  would  had  been  glad  to  patronize;  pretty 
students  with  portfolios  under  their  arms  trotted  along 
Burlington  Gardens,  and  one  felt  inclined  to  pat  them  on 
the  shoulder,  and  praise  them  for  being  good  girls,  and 
hurrying  to  their  lessons  so  nicely.  Bond  Street,  as  he 
turned  into  it,  seemed  fresh  and  clean  as  the  seaside,  re- 
minding him  of  his  old  Westchurch — and  to  complete  the 
memory,  a  fishmonger  who  was  squirting  water  over  the 
marble  slabs  of  the  shop,  saluted  him.  "Fine  morning, 
sir." 

Yes,  thought  Lenny,  it  was  good  to  be  alive  on  such  a 
morning. 

14  203 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

He  stepped  out  briskly  down  the  slope  of  St.  James's 
Street,  and  the  gentle  incline  made  walking  so  pleasant 
that  he  went  past  the  club-house.  The  old  palace  had 
such  a  mellowed  splendour,  with  the  sunlight  flashing,  and 
brown  leaves  flying  over  the  wall  of  Marlborough  House. 
There  were  soldiers  in  the  cloister,  and  many  more  in  the 
quadrangle.  Then  came  the  inspiriting  beat  of  a  drum, 
and  then  full  music,  the  sonorous  brass  that  he  used  to 
hear  when  he  was  a  soldier  himself  for  a  month  or  two 
in  every  year.  These  martial  strains  tempted  him  a  few 
yards  further  away  from  his  destination. 

He  stood  on  the  pavement  of  Pall  Mall,  looking  through 
the  gates  to  the  open  sunshine  in  St.  James's  Park.  Cabs 
with  luggage  passed  by — going  to  Victoria,  to  catch  the 
boat  train  very  likely.  The  cabs  and  trunks  set  his  mind 
working,  brought  him  a  series  of  vivid  mental  pictures. 
Down  there  was  the  road  that  led  to  the  wide  world — Como 
.  .  .  Venice  .  .  .  Naples  .  .  .  The  East  .  .  , 
Japan.  All  these  places  practically  belonged  to  him;  a 
man  may  go  almost  anywhere  nowadays.  The  wide  world 
had  become  his  possession  because  he  was  free. 

He  enjoyed  breakfast  at  the  club.  Nowhere  else  had  he 
ever  met  with  such  a  blending  of  grandeur  and  comfort. 
As  a  rule  there  were  not  more  than  six  breakfasters  dotted 
here  and  there  through  the  quiet  expanse  of  the  magni- 
ficent room.  In  spite  of  its  great  size,  it  was  always  warm. 
Fires  blazed  in  basket  grates;  sunbeams  fell  genially  from 
high  windows,  and  struck  rainbow  tints  out  of  the  rich 
carpet;  servants  moved  with  silent  alacrity,  and  one  seemed 
to  feel  bigger,  robuster,  more  important,  as  one  sat  in  nearly 
solitary  state  and  glanced  with  condescension  on  all  the 
surrounding  pomp.  Gilded  columns,  crimson  walls,  silver 
plate,  enormous  dumb-waiters — wherever  one  turned  one's 
eyes,  something  noble   and   impressive.     And  the  way  the 

204 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

servants  laid  the  dishes  on  one's  table,  with  such  a  sense 
of  the  importance  of  their  work,  with  so  much  tender  care 
for  the  well-being  of  their  masters.  Toast  snatched  from 
the  toasting  machine  piping  hot,  muffins  with  boiling  water 
under  them  to  prevent  them  from  cooling,  and  an  odorous 
fizzle  issuing  from  the  principal  dish.  A  superior  servant 
brought  one  the  Times;  it  bore  the  club  stamp  in  faint 
blue  on  the  front  page;  it  was  bound  like  a  book  with  a 
bow  of  green  cord, — seeming  as  if  it  were  a  special  edition 
printed  for  oneself, — recalling  the  satin  programmes  sup- 
plied at  theatres  for  kings  and  princes. 

Very  few  members  in  the  club  after  breakfast:  one 
had  the  quiet  empty  rooms  to  wander  about  at  will.  Out- 
side the  plate-glass  windows  London  wooed  one,  and  all 
day  long  London  now  seemed  to  Lenny  so  sufficingly  pleas- 
ant. He  walked  and  he  drove ;  and,  walking  or  driving,  he 
thought  that  he  had  never  till  now  really  appreciated  the 
charm  of  this  vast  town.  He  had  liked  it  always,  but  he 
had  never  regularly  lived  in  it.  He  had  been  a  visitor ;  now 
he  was  tasting  some  of  the  fascination  that  is  reserved  for 
habitual  residents.  At  twilight  he  came  back  to  the  club 
again.  External  air  cold  now,  but  the  club  was  warm  and 
bright — full  of  members  till  dinner  time.  He  drank  his 
tea  in  the  library,  basked  in  the  luxury  of  silence  after  so 
much  jolly  chat,  finally  stretched  himself  on  one  of  the 
couches,  sank  into  snug  repose,  passed  through  oblivion  to 
elysium. 

Lenny  had  broken  his  prison.  Without  effort  he  was 
travelling — round  the  world.  But  no  sense  of  fatigue  in 
such  dream  wanderings.  He  woke  after  an  hour  with  a 
delicious  sense  of  restored  energy.  Upstairs  in  billiard-rooms 
and  card-rooms,  the  friendly  hail-fellow-well-met  comrades 
were  still  assembled,  talking,  laughing,  playing,  but  at 
about  7.30  the  happy  palace  began  to  empty  itself:  married 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

men  were  going  home  to  dinner;  bachelors  were  off  to 
their  attics  to  put  on  their  dress  clothes. 

"Hullo,   Calcraft,  you  look  fairly  bobbish." 

"Thank  you,  Beckford,  I'm  as  jolly  as  a  sandboy." 

He  was  pleased  by  the  welcome  that  had  been  accorded 
to  him  in  the  billiard-room.  Presently  someone  asked 
a  question  of  somebody  else. 

"Are  you  dinin'  here  to-night,  Wilmington?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Sir  John. 

"I  think  I'll  join  you,"  said  Mr.  Enfield. 

Then  Sir  John  asked  Lenny  if  he  proposed  to  stay. 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"We  might  share  a  table?" 

"Delighted." 

Mr.  Enfield  had  rung  the  bell,  and  was  asking  the 
waiter  for  a  telegraph  form.  "I  must  send  a  word  home 
to  tell  'em  not  to  expect  me." 

Then  two  other  members  asked  for  telegraph  forms. 
Two  other  wives  were  to  learn  at  the  last  moment  that 
they  would  dine  to-night  without  their  lords. 

The  waiter  offered  Lenny  the  case  of  telegraph  forms; 
but  he  declined  it  with  a  smile.  Not  necessary.  Excuses 
not  required.  Only  himself  to  please.  No,  he  is  a  free 
man. 

Sometimes,  when  passing  the  windows  of  the  tourists' 
agency  in  Cockspur  Street  he  wondered  why  he  had  never 
made  those  inquiries  about  through  fares,  sleeping  berths, 
and  luggage  registration.  He  was  himself  surprised  to 
find  that  he  had  not  gone  away.  The  month  of  December 
had  begun,  and  yet  here  he  was  still. 

But  of  late  he  had  been  deeply  involved  in  business — 
business  of  a  distressing  nature.  On  Sunday  night,  in  the 
hotel  smoking-room,  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  very 

206 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

interesting  man — or  rather  of  an  interesting  group  of  men. 
This  Mr.  McAndrew  was  a  Scotsman  who  had  Ameri- 
canized himself  by  twenty  years  of  industry  and  adven- 
ture in  the  United  States.  He  had  made  and  lost  for- 
tunes, but  now,  as  he  described  it,  he  was  "on  top  of  the 
wave;  going  strong  and  big  in  copper."  The  other  men 
were  hangers-on  of  the  chieftain,  but  solid  respectable 
people — a  banker  from  Manchester,  a  well-known  Member 
of  Parliament,  a  newspaper  editor,  and  a  manufacturer  of 
wire.  Lenny  saw  them  from  time  to  time,  listened  to  their 
stories,  and  was  amused  by  their  vigorous  hard-headed  talk 
about  politics  and  finance.  Mr.  McAndrew,  the  chieftain, 
seemed  to  take  to  Lenny,  enjoyed  his  society,  asked  him 
to  a  large  dinner,  at  which  Lenny  was  impressed  by  the 
substantial  character  of  the  guests.  There  were  several 
Members  of  Parliament,  a  young  man  from  the  American 
Embassy,  and  a  popular  actor.  Obviously  then,  Mr.  Mc- 
Andrew was  all  right.  A  person  of  real  weight,  not  a 
blown-out  impostor.  And  his  all-rightness  was  further 
confirmed  by  what  one  of  the  city  members  of  the  club 
told  Lenny  of  his  reputation  on  the  far  side  of  Ludgate 
Hill. 

Finally  McAndrew  offered  a  tip,  or  bit  of  friendly  ad- 
vice, on  which  Lenny  promptly  acted. 

The  advice  came  at  an  opportune  moment.  Lenny  was 
now  in  possession  of  all  his  property,  but  he  had  not  quite 
completed  that  scheme  of  personal  denudation.  In  fact 
he  had  not  yet  got  very  far  with  it.  Up  to  now  he  had 
transferred  the  large  sum  of  £5,000  to  his  sisters,  or  in 
other  words  a  hundred  a  year  for  each  of  them.  They 
ought  to  be  able  to  get  four  per  cent,  safely.  £5,000  gone 
—a  very  large  sum,  but  small  in  comparison  with  his  orig- 
inal intentions,  which  ran  to  the  enormous  figure  of  £20,000. 

But  already  the  sisters  were  growing  impatient.     They 

207 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

wrote  most  churlishly  and  ungratefully  to  Mr.  Newall, 
the  Westchurch  solicitor,  urging  him  to  hurry  up,  to 
fulfil  promises,  to  give  them  their  money  without  delay. 
Lenny  was  wounded  and  annoyed  by  the  tone  of  these 
letters.  His  sisters,  after  their  first  hasty  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  munificence,  were  taking  the  whole  thing  as 
their  right.  Really,  they  spoke  now  as  though  the  money 
belonged  to  them.  It  disgusted  him;  but,  nevertheless, 
he  had  determined  to  make  another  payment  in  their 
favour.  He  would  give  them  still  another  £1,000  apiece. 
And  after  that  he  really  must  have  time  to  consider  matters, 
carefully.  He  would  make  this  payment  in  cash,  and  the 
money  now  lay  at  the  bank.  It  was  just  at  this  point 
that  McAndrew  offered  him  the  chance  of  a  wonderful 
speculation.  He  suggested  that  Lenny  should  buy  2,000 
or  3,000  £1  shares  in  the  Nemorna  Bay  Amalgamated 
Copper  Mines,  which  now  stood  at  about  ten  shillings  each. 
He  was  genuinely  to  buy  them  and  to  hold  them,  and 
eventually  they  would  go  racing  up  to  £2  or  £3  each. 
Lenny  jumped  at  the  chance.  It  was  as  though  a  fairy 
had  brought  the  thing  to  him.  By  this  means  his  gener- 
osity would  cost  him  nothing — indeed,  he  would  be  a 
richer  man  at  the  end  of  the  whole  transaction  than  he 
was  at  the  beginning.  He  sold  out  stock,  and  used  the 
proceeds,  together  with  the  cash  at  his  bank,  for  the 
purchase  of  5,000  Nemorna  shares,  and  wrote  to  Mr.  New- 
all,  informing  him  that  for  the  moment  the  other  matter 
must  wait.    After  all,  it  was  not  pressing. 

Then  came  some  anxiously  dreaming  days.  He  thought 
of  all  the  possibilities  of  his  adventure.  Dividends  of 
twenty,  fifty,  a  hundred  per  cent.;  a  boom;  the  shares  at 
£5  or  £10  each — a  little  fortune!  McAndrew  and  his 
friends  had  told  him  that  he  was  really  to  hold  the  shares, 
and  even  to  be  prepared  for  them  temporarily  to  go  down 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

— down  to  nothing.  They  explained  that  the  price  of 
eleven  shillings  at  which  they  could  now  be  procured  was 
a  chancey  sort  of  quotation,  and  bore  no  true  ratio  to  their 
value.  Adverse  criticism,  a  bad  report  from  touring  busy- 
bodies  as  to  the  industry  generally,  or  some  pompous 
warning  against  rash  speculation  in  a  paper  like  the  Times, 
would  be  sufficient  to  knock  down  the  price  to  zero;  but 
it  would  soon  bound  up  again  when  the  real  facts  were 
known,  and  Lenny  was  not  to  be  in  a  hurry  even  then. 
He  was  to  hang  on  and  make  his  golden  harvest  with 
his  friends.  They  urged  this  strongly,  and  he  gathered 
that  they  would  consider  it  a  dirty  trick,  if  he  failed  to 
hold  on.  They  further  pointed  out  that,  as  a  man  of  means, 
he  could  not  go  wrong.  At  the  worst  it  would  be  a  lock-up 
investment. 

But  one  morning  Lenny  woke  to  a  nerve  test  that 
proved  too  much  for  him.  He  had  somehow  omitted  to 
look  at  the  over-night  newspaper,  and  thus  had  not  learnt 
what  most  people  knew  yesterday.  The  day's  paper 
gave  him  disastrous  tidings.  "Sensational  slump  in 
copper.  .  .  .  something  like  a  panic.  Heavy  fall  in 
well-known  securities!"  Amalgamated  Nemorna  had  gone 
head  over  heels  into  the  abyss.  His  eyes  almost  started 
out  of  his  head  as  he  read  the  quotations — eight  and  six 
pence,  five  and  nine  pence,  three  and  eleven  pence. 

Lenny  was  panic-stricken.  He  simply  could  not  stand 
it.  He  jumped  out  of  bed,  threw  on  his  clothes,  and 
rushed  downstairs  to  telephone  to  his  stockbrokers. 
When  purchasing,  he  had  employed  McAndrew's  brokers; 
but  his  own  people  must  sell  for  him.  To  his  horror 
he  discovered  that  neither  the  Stock  Exchange  nor  the 
office  of  his  brokers  was  as  yet  open;  he  had  to  wait,  suf- 
fering agonies.  But  at  last  he  got  into  communication 
with  the  office,  and  a  most  agitating  conversation  ensued. 

209 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Nemorna  Bay  Amalgamated!  Nemorna  Bay!  Ne- 
morna!"  Lenny  was  bellowing  the  name  of  the  cop- 
per mine,  and  the  stockbroker's  clerk  was  saying  he  could 
not  hear  it.  When  the  clerk  had  got  the  name,  he  said, 
"Well,  which  is  it  you  wish  us  to  do — to  sell  the  things 
or  to  buy  some  for  you?     I  can't  quite  hear." 

"To  sell!  To  sell!"  yelled  Lenny.  "Sell  the  lot  as 
fast  as  you  can." 

"We'll  do  what  we  can,  sir;  but  it  is  very  probable 
there  may  be  no  buyers.  Anyhow,  we  have  your  order 
now.    We  quite  understand." 

"I'll  come  down  to  the  office,"  roared  Lenny. 

And  immediately  after  his  breakfast  in  the  hotel  res- 
taurant he  hastened  to  the  city  to  inquire  if  the  brokers 
had  succeeded   in  unloading  for  him. 

One  of  the  partners  suggested  that  perhaps  Lenny  need 
not  be  in  such  a  hurry. 

"From  what  I  hear  there  is  nothing  against  your  prop- 
erty, and  I  should  strongly  advise  you  to  stick  to  it  a  bit. 
You  are  selling  now  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  market, 
and  I  really  think  you  ought  to  give  it  a  chance." 

"I  want  to  cut  short  my  losses,"  said  Lenny.  "I  can't 
stand  the  anxiety.  I  ought  never  to  have  touched  the 
thing.    The  fact  is,  I  am  not  a  gambler  by  nature." 

"No.  Quite  right,"  said  the  partner.  "But  really, 
some  of  these  copper  things  are  doing  so  well  that  they 
very  soon  will  be  classed  as  investments  and  not  specu- 
lations." 

But  Lenny  insisted  on  unloading;  and  it  was  after 
this,  when  taking  stock  of  his  affairs,  and  facing  the  loss 
he  had  incurred,  that  he  saw  plainly  how  impossible  it 
would  be  to  carry  out  his  intention  with  regard  to  the 
sisters.     All   the   money   of   the    instalment    that   he   had 

210 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

proposed  to  give  them  now,  and  a  great  deal  more  of  his 
own,  had  been  blown  to  the  four  winds  by  these  copper 
idiots.  However,  it  might  be  a  lesson  to  him  if  he  rigidly 
abstained  from  such  folly  in  the  future. 

McAndrew  and  the  middle-class  bounders  who  toadied 
their  chieftain  and  made  a  little  court  at  the  hotel,  would 
possibly  resent  what  they  might  be  pleased  to  consider 
as  a  shabby  trick.  In  fact,  Lenny  felt  sure  that  they 
would  be  angry  if  they  discovered  that  he  was  no  longer 
hanging  on.  But  he  avoided  them — he  never  wished  to 
see  their  faces  again. 

It  became  the  duty  of  Mr.  Newall  of  Westchurch  to 
explain  to  Mrs.  Kent  and  Mrs.  Holway  that  they  had 
better  rest  content  with  what  they  had  already  obtained, 
and  not  count  on  anything  further.  Mr.  Newall,  when 
writing,  made  no  comments  on  the  instructions  he  had 
received.  Perhaps  he  thought  that  Lenny  had  done  enough. 
Perhaps  he  never  expected  him  to  do  so  much.  At  any 
rate,  he  never  expected  him  to  do  any  more.  Although 
not  by  any  means  a  cynic,  Mr.  Newall  often  boasted  that 
he  knew  human  nature. 

London  in  December  was  as  pleasant  as,  if  not  pleasanter 
than  London  in  November.  Lenny  could  not  tear  him- 
self away  from  it.  He  just  enjoyed  himself,  without 
doing  anything  important.  Such  tasks  as  getting  his 
hair  cut,  buying  winter  boots,  and  ordering  new  clothes 
at  his  tailor's  occupied  him  sufficiently.  He  had  noticed 
that  the  best  sort  of  people  in  London  did  not  wear 
mourning  for  long.  After  some  consideration  he  selected 
the  patterns  for  three  pairs  of  grey  trousers,  and  on  the 
delivery  of  these  goods  he  was  well  contented  with  the 
result  of  his  labour. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  first  day  on  which  he  wore  a 

211 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

pair  of  the  new  trousers,  he  was  slowly  and  meditatively 
strolling  up   St.  James's  Street.     He  could  not  make  up 
his  mind  whether  to  do  something,  or  not  to  do  it.     Mrs. 
Fletcher  had  written  to  him  several  times,  reproaching  him 
for  his  neglect  of  her.     Should  he  go   and  look  her  up 
this  afternoon?     He  thought  of  the  red-brick  square  and 
the  beautifully   appointed  house  with   the  countrified  hall 
and  shallow  stairs.     Instinct  seemed  to  be  telling  him  not 
to  go,  but  presently  he  hailed  a  cab  and  went  there. 
"How  well  you  are  looking,  Mr.  Calcraft!" 
"I  am  very  well.     Never  felt  fitter  in  my  life." 
"Then  why  have  you  treated  me  so  badly?" 
She  looked  very  nice,  and  she  appeared  to  be  very  pleased 
to  see  him. 


XXII 

A  PLEASANT  intimacy  had  arisen  between  Lenny 
and  Helen  Fletcher.  In  the  course  of  three  or 
four  weeks  they  had  become  almost  pals.  During 
this  jolly  time  just  before  Christmas  they  were  together 
quite  a  lot. 

It  amused  him  to  carry  her  parcels  when  she  was 
shopping,  to  drink  tea  with  her  in  dimly-lit  Bond  Street 
tea-rooms,  to  drive  about  with  her  in  the  darkness  of  her 
tiny  brougham.  They  spent  evenings  of  great  elegance — 
dinner  at  a  smart  restaurant,  stalls  at  a  new  play — "en 
camarade,"  as  she  described  it.  She  insisted  on  paying 
her  share  of  the  expenses — would  do  so.  One  cannot 
contest  such  a  point  with  a  woman,  especially  a  rich 
woman.  She  was  really  rich — she  dressed  so  splendidly,  by 
day  and  by  night.  No  one  need  feel  ashamed  of  being 
seen  with  her. 

Lenny  also  dined  often  at  her  house,  where  he  enjoyed 
the  lulling  spell  of  a  refined  atmosphere.  Wealth  and 
cultivation!  She  lived  in  the  midst  of  all  the  things  that 
money  and  taste  can  procure  for  one.  There  were  never 
more  or  less  than  eight  people  at  her  dinner-parties:  four 
charming  well-bred  interesting  women,  three  entirely  un- 
interesting men — and  himself. 

He  was  beginning  to  know  many  of  her  friends,  and 
he  liked  them  well  enough ;  but  he  was  not  much  taken 
with  her  relatives.  She  had  an  uncle  and  several  male 
cousins  who  were  constant   visitors,    and   who,    it  seemed 

213 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

to  Lenny,  exhibited  objectionable  traits.  They  belonged 
to  a  class  that  he  had  always  disliked — the  suavely  pre- 
tentious, quietly  swaggering  people  who  possess  neither 
rank,  wealth,  nor  the  distinction  won  by  useful  careers, 
and  who  nevertheless  insidiously  convey  their  belief  that 
they  are  in  all  respects  suitable  companions  for  kings  and 
emperors.  They  are  gentlemen  by  birth,  and  therefore 
the  equals  of  all  above  them;  whereas  all  below  them — 
the  vast  majority  of  the  human  race,  in  fact — must  be 
treated  with  sublime  contempt.  Helen  Fletcher  herself 
was  absolutely  devoid  of  pretension.  Though  so  clever, 
she  did  not  even  betray  a  snobbishness  of  intellect;  she 
merely  disregarded  everything  and  everybody  that  failed 
to  amuse  or  interest  her;  she  went  through  life  straight 
ahead,  her  own  way.  But  this  uncle  Granville  Yates,  a 
pompous  elderly  civil  servant,  and  cousin  Pritchard,  a 
briefless  barrister,  were,  in  Lenny's  opinion,  innate  snobs 
— snobs  to  the  backbone;  sycophants  and  hangers-on 
too — liking  Mrs.  Fletcher  for  the  presents  and  good  dinners 
that  she  freely  gave  them, — hoping  perhaps  for  still  greater 
benefits,  and  jealously  watching  her  and  endeavouring  to 
keep  her  all  to  themselves  if  possible. 

Moreover,  Lenny  perceived  their  hostility  to  him — a 
hostility  shared  by  all  her  male  visitors,  whether  family 
connections  or  simply  friends.  Doubtless  they  observed 
that  the  hostess  treated  him  with  particular  deference 
and  attention;  probably  most  of  them  were  would-be  cour- 
tiers of  the  rich  and  attractive  young  widow,  and  they 
dreaded  a  rival  in  every  good-looking  stranger  who  came 
to  the  house. 

During  dinner,  while  Helen  was  present,  they  asked 
him  questions  artfully  designed  to  belittle  his  importance. 
If  he  spoke  of  his  past  experiences  in  the  hunting-field, 
they  inquired  where  he  was  keeping  his  hunters  this  year 

214, 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

— and  affected  a  surprise  when  he  said  that  he  had  no 
horses  just  now.  If  the  subject  was  shooting,  they  wished 
to  know  if  he  had  ever  shot  any  big  game — and  so  on,  the 
endeavour  being  to  detract  from  his  importance. 

When  left  alone  with  them  after  dinner,  he  felt  the  hos- 
tile intention  very  strongly.  They  talked  in  a  familiar, 
free  masonic  manner  of  things  that  he  did  not  know  about, 
of  people  with  whom  he  was  unacquainted;  then  turning 
and  apologizing,  they  ostentatiously  assumed  the  duty  of 
hosts  to  the  newcomer  who  had  been  left  out  of  the  con- 
versation. 

"I  was  forgetting,"  said  Granville  Yates,  "that  this 
would  be  all  gibberish  to  you — er — Mr.  Calcraft;"  and 
he  hesitated,  in  order  to  show  that  as  yet  the  name  did 
not  slip  off  his  tongue  easily.  "But  of  course  you  haven't 
known  my  cousin  long,  have  you?" 

"No,"  said  Lenny,  "I  have  not  had  that  privilege 
for  long." 

"No — so  I  understood.  And  it  is  a  privilege — though 
perhaps,  as  her  uncle,  I  shouldn't  agree  with  you  so  readily. 
One  oughtn't  to  praise  one's  own  folk;"  and  Mr.  Yates 
pretended  to  be  genial  and  expansive.  "Don't  move. 
I'll  come  and  sit  by  you.  Fill  your  glass.  This  port  is 
some  that  poor  Fletcher  bought  years  ago  on  my  recom- 
mendation, so  I  can  vouch  for  it.  .  .  .  You  never  knew 
Fletcher,  did  you?  But  of  course  not.  You  just  told 
me " 

Whenever  he  was  there,  Mr.  Yates  played  the  part  of 
host  after  the  ladies  had  gone  from  the  dining-room;  but 
there  was  also  a  cousin  Donald  who  affected  great  airs  of 
proprietorship. 

"Have  a  cigar,  Calcraft?"  he  said  condescendingly.  "I'll 
get  them  out,"  and  he  went  over  to  the  sideboard.  "Have 
a  big  'un,  or  a  little  'un?" 

215 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Neither,  thank  you,"  said  Lenny,  producing  his  ciga- 
rette-case, and  carefully  inserting  one  of  his  own  cigarettes 
in  a  paper  holder. 

"Give  me  a  small  cigar,  Donald,"  said  old  Yates.  "I 
mustn't  let  you  fellows  sit  here  too  long,  you  know — or 
the  fair  Helen  will  be  sending  for  us.  She  relies  on  me 
to  bring  you  upstairs  in  half  an  hour  at  the  outside." 

Helen  treated  Donald — Lenny  never  learned  his  sur- 
name— as  a  most  innocent  kind  of  tame  cat,  telling  him 
to  ring  the  bell,  put  coals  on  the  fire,  fetch  the  cards  for 
bridge,  and  sending  him  about  the  house  on  messages. 
He  wras  a  pallid  clean-shaven  young  man,  with  lank  dark 
hair  plastered  back  from  his  low  forehead — not  an  ill- 
looking  person  by  any  means;  but  his  charms,  such  as 
they  were,  left  Helen  altogether  cold.  Lenny  felt  quite 
sure  that  Donald  was  desperately  enamoured  of  his  pretty 
cousin,  and  he  felt  equally  sure  that  she  for  her  part  was 
rather  amused  by  this  old-standing  devotion,  and  rather 
sorry  for  the  unfortunate  young  man  who  entertained 
such  hopeless  ambitions.  Donald  himself  in  all  proba- 
bility understood  that  his  case  was  hopeless.  But  he  could 
not  keep  away  from  the  house;  he  watched  jealously;  it 
would  be  poisonous  pain,  almost  death  to  Donald,  if  he 
saw  somebody  else  win  the  glorious  prize. 

One  evening  Donald  distinctly  attempted — in  the  homely 
phrase — "to  put  off"  the  intruder;  although  he  began  by 
telling  Lenny  that  Mrs.  Fletcher's  income  was  over  six 
thousand  a  year.  Think  of  it — and  Lenny  did  think  of 
it.  Something  like  an  income!  But  so  much  money — as 
Donald  explained — placed  her  in  a  somewhat  distressing 
situation.  On  the  one  hand  she  was  exposed  to  flatterers; 
and  on  the  other  hand  she  was  rendered  suspicious  of  the 
integrity  and  genuineness  of  all  mankind. 

"Yes,"    said    Lenny.      "I   suppose   every   pretty   woman 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

must  have  flatterers;  but  I  fancy  Mrs.  Fletcher  is  aware 
that  some  at  least  of  the  adulation  she  receives  is  alto- 
gether natural  and  real." 

"No,  she  can't  believe  it,"  said  Donald  earnestly.  "She 
has  become  thoroughly  suspicious.     It's  a  pity." 

Lenny  puffed  his  cigarette  in  silence. 

"I  often  tell  her  so,"  Donald  went  on.  "A  great 
pity — to  get  these  warped  ideas.  But  she  has  been  un- 
fortunate in  the  people  she  takes  up  with — she's  so  en- 
thusiastic. At  first  all  her  geese  are  swans.  It's  a  family 
joke  with  us.  Who  is  Helen's  new  favourite?  Don't 
you  know,  sometimes  it's  a  singer,  a  poet,  a  piano-player — 
sometimes  just  an  ordinary  social  acquaintance;  but  at 
first  they  are  perfection,  and  we  are  all  told  to  bow  down 
to  them  and  worship  them — until  all  at  once  she  gets  sick 
of  'em,  finds  they  aren't  the  demigods  she  expected, 
and  drops  'em  like  a  hot  potato.  Then  they  go  away 
and  say  she's  fickle.  That's  what  people  do  say  about 
her — because  they  see  how  she  takes  people  up  and  drops 
'em.  But  it  isn't  fickleness.  It  is  the  warp  that  her  situa- 
tion has  given  to  her  character.  The  one  thing  she  values 
now  is  getting  her  own  way,  whatever  the  whim  of  the 
moment  may  be — she  has  a  horror  of  ennui,  can't  brook 
the  idea  of  being  led,  or  even  guided.  That's  why  she 
hasn't  married  again — and  why  we  all  say  she  never  will 
marry." 

And  then  old  Granville  Yates,  sliding  his  chair  nearer, 
joined  in  this  transparent  putting-off  game. 

"No,"  and  Mr.  Yates  nodded  his  head  significantly.  "You 
are  right  there,  Donald.  Rem  acu  tetigisti — as  we  used 
to  say  at  school.  And  between  you  and  me — no  disloyalty 
implied,  mind  you — I'm  not  sure  that  I  would  envy  Helen's 
second  husband.  You  didn't  know  poor  Fletcher,  did  you, 
Mr.  Calcraft?" 

217 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"No,  I  had  not  the  pleasure." 

"Of  course  not.  I  remember  you  told  me  so.  A  queer 
fish!  Not  a  happy  marriage- — I  betray  no  secrets  in  say- 
ing as  much  as  that.  But  since  then  our  young  friend  has 
made  up  for  lost  time.  She  has  enjoyed  her  freedom.  It 
has  become  the  breath  of  her  nostrils.  ,  .  .  Helen  is 
a  magnificent  creature." 

"Magnificent,"  echoed  Donald,  in  a  tone  of  gloomy  en- 
thusiasm. 

"But  Helen,"  continued  Yates,  "has  her  faults. 
Number  One — that  is  the  number  that  Helen  is  disposed 
to  begin  and  end  with.  In  the  last  three  years  she  has 
been  spoilt — by  the  world,  and  by  herself.  And  she  is 
now  in  many  respects  like  your  typical  spoilt  child;"  and 
he  laughed  tolerantly  and  good-humouredly.  "No,  at  the 
present  time — and  I  say  it  again,  without  a  disloyal  thought 
— Helen  might  prove  a  difficult  person  to  run  in  double 
harness  with." 

Then  Mr.  Yates  resumed  the  manner  of  a  deputy  host. 

"Any  more  wine,  Mr.  Calcraf t  ?  .  .  .  Then  put  away 
the  cigars,  Donald — and  let  us  go  upstairs." 

But  an  evening  soon  came  when  officious  cigar-distrib- 
utors and  self-elected  deputy  hosts  suffered  a  severe  snub. 
Perhaps  Mrs.  Fletcher  guessed  that  her  honoured  visitor, 
although  he  uttered  no  complaints,  was  treated  with  in- 
sufficient courtesy  during  her  absence.  Anyhow,  she  made 
a  demonstration  in  his  favour  which  caused  Lenny  to  swell 
proudly  and  contentedly. 

She  was  looking  her  very  best  that  evening.  Before 
dinner  Donald  had  drawn  Lenny's  attention  to  the  fact. 
She  wore  a  dress  of  red  velvet — a  stately,  glowing,  queen- 
like robe,  in  which  she  looked  taller  than  usual;  the  red 
colour,  as  Lenny  observed,  made  her  neck  and  shoulders 
seem    dazzlingly    white,    enhanced    the    delicate    porcelain 

218 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

tones  of  her  complexion,  but,  curiously  enough,  did  not 
clash  with  her  blue  eyes;  and  for  final  touch  of  splendour 
there  was  a  broad  network  or  coif  of  diamonds  bound  across' 
her  fair  hair.  Truly  she  seemed  quite  a  startlingly  pretty 
woman. 

"Isn't  she  magnificent?"  whispered  Donald.  "She  ought 
to  be  painted  in  that  dress.  I  begged  her  to  be  painted 
by  Sargent — but  she  wouldn't.  She  doesn't  care  for  mod- 
ern art." 

Lenny  took  her  down  to  dinner;  and  after  dinner,  when 
she  and  the  other  ladies  were  going  out  of  the  room,  she 
stood  on  the  threshold  and  looked  back  at  him,  smiling. 

"Mr.  Calcraft,  I  leave  you  in  charge.  Don't  let  Uncle 
Granville  sit  all  night  drinking  his  horrid  port,  because 
it  isn't  good  for  him.  And  don't  let  Donald  fill  the  house 
with  cigar  smoke.  Bring  them  up  soon.  You  may  all 
smoke   cigarettes — but   not   cigars — upstairs." 

That — in  the  words  that  suggested  themselves  to  Lenny 
as  descriptive  of  the  phenomenon — fairly  put  an  extinguish- 
ing cap  on  Uncle  Yates  and  Cousin  Donald. 

Donald  glowered  at  him,  Mr.  Yates  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, and  then  both  of  them  drank  feverishly  of  the  half- 
forbidden  port. 

Lenny  knew  that  they  were  suffering,  but  their  dis- 
comfiture amused  him.  Why  the  deuce  should  he  care  for 
them  or  their  feelings?  They  had  shown  no  tenderness 
for  him.  If  a  fascinating,  beautiful,  clever  creature  chose 
in  her  own  house  to  single  him  out  for  especial  honour, 
and  they  didn't  happen  to  like  it — well,  they  could  do  the 
other  thing.  If  they  were  pleased  to  imagine  that  he  was 
a  successful  suitor,  whose  success  would  presently  be  pro- 
claimed to  the  world — well,  he  would  certainly  not  trouble 
to  undeceive  them. 

He  sat  firmly  and  squarely  on  his  chair,  and  talked  to 
15  219 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

the  fourth  man  with  a  new  and  solid  confidence.  He  felt 
thoroughly  at  home,  delightfully  comfortable.  It  gratified 
him  to  know  that  he  was  so  big  and  sleek  and  nicely 
brushed;  that  his  clothes  were  so  well-cut,  and  that  his 
white  waistcoat  and  stiff  pique  shirt  remained  so  entirely 
uncrumpled. 

And  inwardly  he  had  a  sensation  of  immensely  increased 
size,  and  continually  growing  importance.  A  notable  fact 
— no  getting  away  from  it — that,  without  trying,  he  con- 
trived to  make  an  impression  now  and  then,  not  often,  but 
occasionally,  on  members  of  the  other  sex.  It  is  a  wonder- 
ful power  this,  when  you  manage  to  retain  it  all  through 
your  youth  and  on  into  what  most  people  call  middle  life. 


XXIII 

LENNY,  take  me  to  the  Tate  Gallery." 
She  called  him  Lenny  now.     One  day  she  told 
him  that  she  might  thus  comply  with  an  ancient 
request  of  his,  because  she  believed  they  had  reached  the 
real  pal-stage.     He  was  of  course  delighted. 

"And  I  suppose,"  she  said,  smiling  and  arching  her 
eyebrows,  "the  corollary  is,  I  ought  to  be  Helen.  But  I 
don't  think  that  would  do,  would  it?" 

"Wouldn't  it?  No.  I  suppose  the  two  cases  aren't 
on  all  fours;"  and  he  wished  he  could  have  said  something 
neater. 

Then,  after  a  little  reflection,  she  said  that  he  might 
call  her  Helen  when  they  were  alone,  but  not  before  other 
people. 

He  had  not  particularly  wanted  to  call  her  Helen.  What 
he  liked  was  being  called  Lenny.  He  was  accustomed  to 
it,  and  the  sound  of  the  pet  name  always  had  a  pleasant 
individualistic  music  to  his  ear. 

"Lenny,  take  me  to  the  Tate  Gallery." 

"The  Tate  Gallery?    There's  nothing  new  there** 

They  were  walking  along  Piccadilly,  after  luncheon  at 
a  restaurant,  and  he  was  enjoying  the  gentle  exercise.  It 
had  been  wet  all  the  morning. 

"Those  big  things  by  Watts — they  have  come  into  my 
mind,  and  I  feel  that  I  must  see  them  again.  Let's  go  at 
once — before  the  light  fails.  Perhaps  Watts  couldn't 
draw,  perhaps  he  couldn't  paint;  but  he  made  poems  eight 
feet  long  and  six  feet  wide,  and  used  splendid  colours  in- 

221 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

stead  of  mere  words  to  express  his  noble  thoughts.  Do 
be  quick,  Lenny,  and  get  a  cab." 

While  they  drove  to  the  remote  goal,  he  thought  with 
faint  irritation  that  she  was  not  a  reposeful  companion; 
and  suddenly  he  remembered  what  that  young  man  Donald 
had  said  of  her.  She  obeyed  the  whim  of  the  moment, 
and  enforced  the  obedience  of  others.  Evidently  a  certain 
amount  of  truth  in  that!  Then  his  thought  drifted  to  the 
past,  and  he  recalled  walks  about  the  London  streets  with 
Alma.  It  had  been  enough  happiness  for  Alma  to  walk 
by  his  side — the  shop  windows,  the  buildings,  the  passing 
traffic,  provided  all  the  entertainment  she  asked  for.  She 
did  not  abruptly  shout  for  cabs,  and  insist  upon  dashing 
half  across  London  to  look  at  a  lot  of  stupid  pictures. 

But  he  felt  proud  of  Helen  when  at  last  they  reached 
the  gallery.  She  knew  so  much — so  much  more  than  the 
attendants  or  the  compiler  of  the  catalogue;  she  expounded 
the  poetry  of  Watts  with  such  a  technically  instructed 
rapture.  And  she  looked  so  nice.  In  one  of  the  rooms 
he  admired  her  from  a  little  distance,  and  saw  that  other 
people  were  admiring  her  too.  A  middle-class  party — 
two  men  and  three  women — ceased  gazing  at  the  pictures 
in  order  to  gaze  at  her.  One  of  the  men  gaped  with  open 
mouth,  and  the  women  nudged  each  other — they  were  over- 
whelmed by  the  prettiness  and  grandeur  of  the  strange  lady. 

And  Lenny  felt  that  he  also  was  looking  nice.  Just 
now  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  himself  in  a  large  mirror — 
his  new  frock  overcoat  with  the  grey  velvet  collar  and 
the  wide  skirts  was  beautifully  shaped  to  the  waist,  and 
it  became  him;  the  impressive  dignity  of  his  new  silk  hat 
confirmed  his  wisdom  in  demanding  an  unusually  curly 
brim;  the  black  satin  scarf  and  turquoise  pin,  the  soft 
gloves,  the  cloth-topped  boots  were  all  perfect.  The  glass 
had  shown  him  nothing  that  he  could  wish  to  alter. 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Helen,  come  here.    This  is  exquisite/' 

She  came  to  him  at  once,  and  he  pointed  to  a  small  land- 
scape— wild  flowers  in  foreground,  snow  mountains  in  back- 
ground, blue  summer  sky. 

"Yes?"  And  she  looked  up  at  him,  wonderingly, 
eagerly.  "What  is  it  that  appeals  to  you  in  that,  Lenny? 
Tell  me  exactly  why  you  like  it." 

But  he  was  only  thinking  what  a  fine  couple  they  made — 
so  lordly  and  commanding,  so  sumptuously  attired,  so  full 
of  attraction  to  commonplace  sight-seers.  He  had  sum- 
moned her  to  his  side  because  he  wished  those  nudging 
women  and  that  poor  gaping  man  to  know  that  she  be- 
longed to  him. 

"Tell  me,  Lenny,  so  that  I  may  see  it  as  you  see  it." 

"The  light!  The  colour!"  And  he  stretched  out  his 
open  hand  and  slowly  closed  it. 

"Ah!  You  are  able  to  pull  it  all  together.  I  can't. 
To  me  it  is  all  detail — no  harmony  or  completeness.  Where 
are  we  supposed  to  be,  to  see  field  flowers  that  size?  They 
must  be  close  to  our  eyes — our  heads  on  the  ground.  To 
me  it  is  just  a  studio  composition — sketch  of  hills,  study 
of  flowers — notes  from  my  sketch-book,  selected  in  leisure 
hours  after  my  holiday  abroad;"  and  she  laughed  gaily 
but  contemptuously.  "I  dare  say  you  are  right,  Lenny. 
And  it's  only  my  prejudice — my  old  quarrel  with  the  Eng- 
lish school." 

The  worst  thing  that  one  could  possibly  say  against  her 
as  a  companion  was  this — she  lacked  repose. 

An  excursion  with  her  was  very  different  from  a  quiet 
promenade  with  Alma.  There  was  a  certain  amount  of 
underlying  strain.  Helen's  conversation  always  stimulated, 
but  sometimes  it  slightly  fatigued  one.  With  Helen  he 
was  always  intellectually  stretched — trying  more  or  less  to 

823 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

shine,  to  give  a  fresh  turn  to  stale  thoughts,  not  to  betray 
ignorance  in  matters  of  art,  literature,   modern  science. 

With  Alma  it  had  been  so  easy.  Poor  girl,  at  the  very 
beginning  she  had  placed  him  on  a  pedestal.  Those 
maddened  runaway  horses  did  the  trick;  he  was  exalted 
once  and  for  all:  the  hero,  the  superhuman  being  whose 
lightest  words  must  contain  some  echo  of  a  divine  voice. 
To  a  lesser  extent  Helen  Fletcher  had  done  something  of 
the  sort.  She  paid  him  compliments — spoke  of  him  in  a 
symbolic  metaphorical  manner  that  was  gratifying.  She 
continued  to  talk  of  his  mantle; — but  he  was  always  afraid 
of  making  a  rent  in  it. 

One  morning  when  he  came  to  luncheon  at  her  house, 
he  found  her  seated  in  a  low  chair  with  an  immense  volume 
on  her  lap.  She  scarcely  raised  her  eyes  when  he  entered 
the  drawing-room. 

"Lenny,  look  at  my  trouvaille.  Stand  behind  me  and 
look — but  don't  disturb  me — don't  wake  me  out  of  won- 
derful dreams." 

He  went  behind  her  chair,  and  looked  at  the  illustra- 
tions in  the  book  as  she  slowly  turned  the  pages.  Egyptian 
monuments — sphinxes,  statues  of  kings  and  queens; — pho- 
tographs, reproductions  of  water-colour  drawings — all  beau- 
tifully printed:  obviously  a  very  expensive  affair! 

"Where  did  you  get  it,  Helen?" 

"A  shop  in  Regent  Street.  I  brought  it  straight  home — 
to  gloat  over." 

Then  after  turning  another  page  she  drew  in  her  breath 
with  a  long  sigh,  and  pointed  at  a  photograph  of  two  co- 
lossal statues. 

"They  amaze  me — and  they  fascinate  me."  She  spoke 
in  an  awe-struck  whisper,  as  if  to  herself  rather  than  to 
him.  But  stooping  over  the  back  of  the  chair,  he  just 
caught   her   words.      "Think   of   how    these   things   were 

224, 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

made!  The  blocks  torn  from  the  live  rock.  Dragged  by 
slaves  across  the  desert — straining  like  beasts — cracking, 
bursting,  dying — and  the  merciless  lash  falling  night  and 
day  on  naked  backs.  .  .  .  Granite!  Yes,  granite  to 
carry  the  fashioned  marble!  Every  plinth  cemented  with 
human  blood!"  Then  she  spoke  directly  to  him. 
"Lenny,  look.  Look  at  this  marble  man  and  woman! 
Born  in  such  horror,  and  yet  wearing  such  eternal  calm 
on  their  cruel  stone  faces!" 

He  could  not  obtain  any  further  attention  from  her  until 
she  had  regretfully  turned  the  last  page.  Then  she  got 
up,  and,  still  holding  the  book,  spoke  eagerly  and  excitedly. 

"Lenny,  take  me  to  the  British  Museum,  and  let  me 
see  some  of  the  real  things." 

"I  thought  we  were  going  to  the  skating  rink." 

"No,  no — not  to-day.  Take  me  to  the  British  Museum 
the  moment  we  have  had  our  lunch.  Ring  the  bell.  I'll 
tell  them  we  want  lunch  at  once." 

Instead  of  being  a  delightful  leisurely  repast,  their 
luncheon  was  like  a  meal  snatched  at  a  railway  station, 
when  you  know  that  the  express  will  start  in  less  than 
twenty  minutes.  She  made  him  bolt  his  food;  and  by  rea- 
son of  the  insensate  hurry  it  had  not  been  properly  cooked. 
No  time  to  assist  digestion  by  quietly  sipping  a  cup  of  black 
coffee — he  was  hustled  from  the  table  before  he  had  even 
smoked  a  cigarette.  No  time  to  order  her  snug  little 
brougham — frantic  whistling  to  fetch  a  draughty  old  four- 
wheeler. 

He  was  not  too  well  pleased.  He  could  not  but  re- 
member what  Uncle  Yates  had  said.  Spoilt  by  the  world, 
and  spoiling  herself:  altogether  too  like  a  typical  spoilt 
child.  And  there  was  something  he  did  not  understand, 
something  with  which  he  would  never  be  able  to  sympa- 
thize, in  this  wild  ecstasy  about  the  art  of  a  semi-barbarous 

225 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Civilization  that  had  passed  away  thousands  of  years  ago. 
It  struck  a  jarring  note.  He  did  not  like  it,  although  he 
could  not  with  precision  have  explained  why. 

The  museum  wearied  him,  enervated  him;  but  it  seemed 
that  she  could  not  tear  herself  away  from  the  stupendous 
evidences  of  human  labour  and  human  pain.  "They 
fascinate  me,"  she  said  again  and  again;  and  he  was  com- 
pelled to  hang  about  among  the  tombs,  temple  friezes,  and 
gigantic  winged  beasts,  till  his  feet  began  to  burn  and  ache 
in  a  new  pair  of  patent  leather  boots.  One  circumstance 
only  sustained  him.  He  saw  once  more  how  greatly  every- 
body admired  her — the  attendants,  the  policemen,  the  vis- 
itors, the  students,  all  turned  their  heads  and  with  or  with- 
out discretion  stared  at  her. 

She  had  been  in  too  much  haste  to  dress  herself  care- 
fully. She  had  just  thrown  on  her  clothes,  the  first  that 
came  handy  to  the  maid,  and  yet  she  looked  charming. 
Again  he  watched  her  from  a  little  distance — she  wore  a 
long  coat  and  a  short  skirt  of  purple  cloth,  ermine  round 
her  neck,  and  a  black  floppy  sort  of  hat  without  a  veil; 
but  in  this  very  ordinary  costume  she  appeared  like  an 
advertisement  or  show  figure  of  the  best  Parisian  dress- 
maker; really  the  quintessence  of  mundane  elegance. 
And  she  carried  herself  so  well — the  head,  with  upturned 
eyes,  so  beautifully  poised;  a  hand  upon  a  hip,  in  an  atti- 
tude used  by  quite  common  people,  yet  now  seeming  appro- 
priate and  seductive.  Automatically  he  drew  nearer  to 
her — he  wanted  to  see  the  expression  of  her  eyes,  the  deli- 
cate tints  of  her  complexion,  the  gleam  of  white  teeth  be- 
tween the  red  lips. 

She  took  his  arm,  and  leaned  upon  it  while  she  stood  in 
front  of  a  vast  Assyrian  bull;  and  he  watched  her  face 
until  she  consented  to  move  on. 

"There!  Monstrous,  but  splendid!  Lenny," — and  he 
226 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

felt  an  increasing  weight  upon  his  arm — "it  fascinates  me. 
The  close-knit  symmetry  of  great  strength!" 

"Yes.     Shall  we  be  off  now?" 

"Let  me  feel  the  Greek  idea  first.  Show  me  the  sculp- 
ture of  Greece — and  of  Rome  too." 

Then  arm  in  arm  they  tramped  through  more  and 
still  more  galleries,  long  avenues  of  stone  and  plaster — 
gods  and  goddesses,  nymphs  and  satyrs,  wrestlers,  water- 
carriers,  sling-throwers,  and  what  not  else  that  one  had 
seen  a  hundred  times  and  never  wished  to  see  again.  His 
only  amusement  was  watching  her  face.  But  her  scrutiny 
of  the  nude  antique  men  vaguely  troubled  him.  It  set 
him  thinking  of  incongruous  matters;  his  mind  wandered, 
and  he  started  when  he  heard  her  voice  at  his  elbow. 

"Strength  and  grace,"  she  was  murmuring.  "Can  you 
ever  have  real  grace  without  strength  behind  it?  .  .  . 
I  think  that's  what  fascinates  me  in  bulls." 

He  watched  her  face.  It  bore  the  connoisseurs  expres- 
sion— eyes  half  closed,  head  very  slightly  on  one  side. 

"Oh,  Lenny,  what  a  nuisance!" 

"What?" 

"They  are  turning  on  the  artificial  light.  I  hate  arti- 
ficial light.  I  should  like  to  be  here  when  it  was  so  dark 
that  one  could  only  just  make  out  the  form  and  size  of 
things.  I  would  like  to  be  here  at  night — in  total  dark- 
ness— shut  in,  all  alone,  with  the  work  of  the  mighty 
dead.  .  .  .  What  dreams,  what  wonderful  dreams  one 
ought  to  have — lying  at  the  feet  of  the  gods,  quite  alone 
in  this  cemetery  of  Olympus!" 

At  last  he  plainly  requested  her  to  come  away. 

"Helen,  it  is  getting  late — past  tea-time.  Where  shall 
I  take  you  for  tea?" 

"Let's  have  tea  here.  Ask  the  way  to  the  refreshment 
room." 

m 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Oh,  they  would  give  us  a  horrible  tea." 

"No,  it  would  be  all  right.  And  after  tea,  let  us  see 
the  Cretan  frescoes.  There  are  urns  and  vases  too — heaps 
of  things  dug  up  the  other  day  in  Crete." 

"Good-bye,  British  Museum,"  he  said  to  himself,  when 
passing  through  the  forecourt.  "Catch  me  again  if  you 
can.     Once  bit,  twice  shy." 

No,  he  was  not  well  pleased  with  Helen  that  afternoon. 

But  he  was  much  pleased  with  her,  very  proud  of  her, 
three  nights  later  when  she  called  for  him  in  her  little 
brougham,  took  him  out  for  dinner  at  an  hotel,  and  thence 
to  a  theatre. 

She  was  quite  at  her  best  to-night.  She  had  the  dia- 
mond coif  to  decorate  her  pretty  hair;  and  when  she  re- 
moved a  magnificent  sable  cloak,  he  saw  that  she  was  wear- 
ing the  red  velvet  dress.  Manifestations  of  admiring  sur- 
prise were  plainly  perceptible.  Diners  at  other  tables  could 
not  repress  their  curiosity.  Lenny  felt  that  he  and  his  lady 
were  all  to  nothing  the  smartest  couple  in  the  whole  of 
the  smart  hotel. 

And  it  was  the  same  thing  at  the  playhouse.  Every- 
body who  saw  them  seemed  to  exhibit  uncontrollable 
admiration.  They  sat  in  the  stalls,  with  their  elbows 
touching,  their  breaths  mingling  as  they  whispered  to  each 
other,  their  hearts  beating  to  a  sympathetic  rhythm  while 
they  listened  to  the  talented  actors  and  actresses.  It  was 
a  charmingly  clever  play — it  satisfied  the  intellect,  it  stirred 
the  emotions;  it  made  you  laugh,  and  it  made  you  cry. 
After  the  poignantly  sad  third  act,  there  were  lumps  in 
their  throats  and  tears  in  their  eyes. 

"You  are  like  me,"  Helen  whispered.  "You  yield  to 
the  illusion,  though  you  know  it  is  an  illusion." 

"Yes — quite  pathetic!     Almost  too  sad." 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

But,  as  Lenny  had  prophesied,  the  fourth  act  made  every- 
thing all  right.  No  more  tears,  no  more  laughter — some 
tender  smiles,  and  a  delightful  consciousness  that  all  was 
ending,  had  ended,  happily.  When  the  curtain  de- 
scended Helen's  face  was  glowing  and  her  eyes  were  very 
bright. 

"Lenny,  take  me  somewhere  to  supper." 

"Rather.     Where  shall  we  go?" 

She  held  his  arm,  as  slowly  they  made  their  way  out 
of  the  theatre,  and  whispered  in  so  low  a  tone  that  nobody 
else  could  possibly  hear  her. 

"Take  me  somewhere  wrong — to  a  place  where  I 
oughtn't  to  go — where  the  naughty  people  go." 

"My  dear  girl,  they  go  everywhere  nowadays." 

She  laughed,  pressed  his  arm,  and  went  on  whispering. 

"Show  me  the  brazen  abandoned  women  who  have  such 
power  over  you  weak  men — the  shameless  creatures  who 
stick  at  nothing." 

"Helen,  you  are  shocking  me." 

"Yes,  I'm  doing  it  purposely.  I'm  trying  to  shock  you. 
It  is  the  play — the  play  has  excited  me.  I  would  like 
to  keep  up  the  excitement,  and  not  drop  down  at  once  to 
the  flat  dull  level  of  everyday  life." 

He  took  her  to  another  fashionable  restaurant — a  most 
sumptuous  and  sagely  conducted  place  of  entertainment. 
The  other  idea  was  not  quite  good  enough.  But  he  deter- 
mined to  humour  her  whim  by  pointing  out  reputable  mem- 
bers of  society,  giving  them  fictitious  names,  and  declaring 
them  to  be  steeped  in  the  most  terrible  naughtiness. 

However,  by  the  time  they  were  established  at  their 
supper-table,  her  mood  had  changed.  She  had  become 
silent  and  sentimental;  she  scarcely  glanced  at  the  sur- 
rounding company,  but  looked  at  Lenny  with  softened  eyes. 

By  his  directions,  the  waiter  had  moved  their  chairs  so 

229 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

that  they  sat  elbow  to  elbow  again,  instead  of  facing  each 
other  across  the  little  round  table. 

More  champagne,  more  cutlets,  more  music — Lenny  felt 
blissfully  contented.  Here,  as  at  the  theatre,  many  people 
were  admiring  his  companion.  But  she  had  eyes  only  for 
him. 

"Lenny!     I  have  a  communication  to  make." 

He  stopped  in  the  act  of  helping  himself  to  a  second 
cutlet.     His  ear  had  caught  the  note  of  real  emotion. 

"Don't  look  at  me.  Go  on  eating — and  then  no  one 
will  guess  that  we  aren't  talking  of  quite  ordinary  things." 

The  band  played,  people  chattered  loudly,  knives,  forks, 
and  plates  clashed  and  clinked;  and  amidst  all  this  noisy 
confusion  she  continued  speaking  to  him  in  a  low  and  rather 
tremulous  voice. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  remember  it,  but  I  told  you  once 
what  I  should  do  if  I  found  the  man — the  man  that  per- 
haps I  was  seeking  for.  .  .  .  Lenny,  I  think  I  have 
found  the  man." 

"Have  you?" 

"No,  don't  look  at  me." 

But  naturally  he  disobeyed  her.  Her  eyes  were  glowing 
very  softly;  her  red  lips  had  parted  in  a  smile;  her  whole 
face  was  full  of  light — like  a  pretty  painted  lantern  with 
the  concealed  lamp  shining  through  the  delicate  paper  case. 

"Yes,  I  am  almost  sure.  But  he  is  slow  to  make  me 
quite  sure.  He  is  dreadfully  slow  to  take  hints — he  hangs 
back — he  won't  answer  to  the  spur.  So  I  am  obliged  to 
ask  him  a  direct  question.  .  .  .  Lenny,  do  you  like  me — 
a  little?" 

"No.    I  like  you  a  great  deal." 

"How  much?  I  want  to  know — because  I  like  you 
enormously." 

Her  horses  were  cold  after  so  much  standing,  and  they 
230 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

pranced  home  at  a  spanking  pace.  In  the  snug  darkness 
of  the  little  brougham  she  had  opened  her  fur  cloak  to 
enable  him  to  get  his  arm  round  her  waist  comfortably; 
and  all  the  way  home  from  the  Embankment  to  Sloane 
Street,  except  when  garish  light  momentarily  invaded  their 
dark  shelter,  he  was  kissing  and  fondling  her. 

An  hour  later  in  the  bedroom  of  his  hotel,  he  noticed 
that  a  perfume  of  violets  still  clung  to  his  clothes. 


XXIV 

HE  lay  late  in  bed  next  day,   thinking  of  these  re- 
markable occurrences. 

Helen  Fletcher  had  proposed  marriage,  and  he 
had  accepted  the  proposal.  When  he  first  woke,  he  scarcely 
believed  it.  How  could  such  a  thing  have  happened?  Was 
it  possible  that  after  telling  Alma  he  would  never  marry, 
he  had  already  engaged  himself  to  another  woman?  He 
was  filled  with  wonder — really  could  not  understand  it. 

From  Alma's  point  of  view,  the  unexpected  event 
might  seem  to  indicate  treachery,  falsehood,  meanness. 
He  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  Alma's  hearing  about  it. 
But  of  course  all  the  circumstances  were  so  entirely  differ- 
ent. This  was  a  rational  affair,  the  union  of  two  worldly 
well-to-do  people,  the  marriage  of  convenience. 

Then  for  a  little  while  he  thought  of  the  material 
advantages  offered  by  the  marriage.  Six  thousand  a  year, 
with  about  fifteen  hundred  of  his  very  own — it  would  mean 
a  life  of  consummate  ease,  ■  spent  in  that  atmosphere  of 
refinement  which  he  had  thought  so  charming.  He  would 
be  master  of  that  well-appointed  house,  host  at  innumerable 
dinner-parties,  a  person  of  real  importance.  If  he  wished, 
he  could  hunt  again,  shoot  again;  he  could  be  a  yachting 
man,  or  a  racing  man;  he  could  patronize  literature  and 
the  drama;  he  could  undoubtedly  afford  to  enter  Par- 
liament. 

And  then  he  wandered  off  into  philosophic  meditations. 
How    marvellously    complex    is    this    mysterious    blending 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

of  what  seems  so  like  free  will  and  what  is  palpably  pre- 
destined! Marvellous — when  one  honestly  tries  to  shape 
one's  life,  and  thinks  one  is  doing  so,  it  is  all  the  time  being 
shaped  for  one.  That  was  what  he  had  always  maintained 
— we  are  puppets.  He  had  said  so  to  Alma;  and  all 
that  had  happened  last  night,  all  that  was  to  happen  this 
morning,  bore  out  his  theory.  Soon  he  would  dress, 
and  by  one  o'clock  find  himself  on  the  steps  of  that  red- 
brick house;  and  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat  there  would 
be  a  little  case,  which  he  would  have  procured  at  the 
Army  &  Navy  Stores;  and  in  the  case  there  would  be  an 
expensive  jewelled  engagement-ring — for  his  affianced 
bride.  By  no  possibility  could  he  have  guessed  yesterday 
what  to-morrow's  task  might  be;  and  by  no  possibility, 
now  that  to-morrow  had  become  to-day,  could  he  evade 
the  task.  Destiny!  A  big  word,  but  no  smaller  one  big 
enough  for  the  phenomenon.  He  had  never  plotted  to 
marry  Helen — never.  But  would  poor  Alma  understand 
how  unavoidably  he  had  drifted  into  this  arrangement? 

Before  he  got  out  of  bed  he  had  determined  that  it 
should  be  a  very  quiet  wedding,  without  guests  or  recep- 
tion, without  even  any  announcements  in  the  newspapers. 
Alma's  knowledge  of  the  curious  and  surprising  fact  should 
be  delayed  as  long  as  possible. 

Wonder  became  a  component  now  in  most  of  his 
thoughts. 

Helen  was  very,  very  fond  of  him;  and  he  had  not  been 
prepared  for  so  exuberant  a  demonstration  of  her  fondness. 

She  told  him  that  the  first  time  she  saw  him,  she  had 
felt  something — not  anything  powerful  or  distressful,  per- 
haps only  the  awakening  of  a  faint  sensation  or  the  birth 
of  a  vague  idea;  but,  whatever  it  was,  it  proved  sufficient 
to  make  her  wish  to  see  him  again. 

233 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"And  that,  Lenny,  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  way 
nine  women  out  of  ten  begin  to  fall  in  love." 

The  word  startled  him.  It  set  him  wondering.  As 
he  had  understood  the  character  of  her  mind,  and  the 
whole  intention  of  her  life,  he  assumed  that  love  was 
scarcely  an  appropriate  word — at  any  rate,  so  early.  It 
was  a  word  that  might  be  used  after  marriage — but  surely 
not  so  soon  as  all  this.  Convenience,  suitability,  the 
licensed  friendship  of  two  sensible  people  who  had  decided 
to  join  forces — as  he  understood,  these  were  the  principal 
considerations  that  had  influenced  both  contracting  per- 
sonages.    No  matter! 

Then,  she  explained,  she  had  heard  the  legend  of  his 
devotion  to  his  father;  and  it  was  this  that  had  really 
won  her.  She  had  thought,  "What  a  husband  such  a  son 
would  make!"  And  she  had  felt  that  she  would  be  safe 
in  thinking  about  him — and  she  had  liked  thinking  about 
him. 

"Then  when  you  came  to  me  in  your  black  clothes,  look- 
ing so  sad  and  seeming  so  august,  I  felt  quite  sure  I  was 
right."  She  laughed  gaily  and  happily.  "I  had  found 
the  man — and  I  meant  to  get  him,  if  I  anyhow  could." 

A  compliment — a  prodigious  compliment!  Who  would 
not  be  gratified  by  such  an  avowal?  But  it  occurred  to 
him — fleetingly — that  if  at  this  period  he  had  guessed  the 
exact  nature  of  her  thought,  he  might  perhaps  have  been 
a  little  more  wary.  No — not  wary,  but  circumspect;  per- 
haps he  might  have  examined  his  own  thoughts  more  closely 
— might  have  taken  time  to  look  round  the  subject  in  all 
directions. 

With  wonder  he  noticed  extraordinary  changes  in  her. 
Sometimes  it  almost  seemed  that  she  was  another  woman. 
During  her  sentimentally   affectionate  moods,   she  showed 

234 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

no  trace  of  the  old  restlessness.  She  spoke  slowly  and 
purringly,  instead  of  eagerly  or  abruptly;  she  did  not 
want  to  dash  about  London,  was  content  to  sit  quite  still; 
she  was  meek,  docile,  delightedly  submitting  to  his  wishes. 

Engagement  to  be  kept  secret,  wedding  to  be  quiet,  with- 
out fuss  or  publicity — yes,  his  word  was  her  law.  She 
would  take  pleasure  in  whatever  pleased  him. 

When  giving  expression  to  this  submissive  frame  of  mind, 
she  used  little  phrases  that  he  never  should  have  believed 
would  fall  from  those  red  lips. 

"Lenny,  I  want  to  ask  your  permission  to  do  something. 
.  .  .  When  we  are  married,  will  you  ever  allow  me  to 
go  about  by  myself?  .  .  .  Will  you  forbid  my  smoking 
cigarettes?" 

It  charmed  and  soothed  him  when  she  talked  in  this 
manner.  It  seemed  to  augur  so  well  for  the  future,  to 
promise  just  the  tranquil  joys  that  he  desired. 

While  in  one  of  the  compliant  moods,  she  insisted  on 
telling  him  all  about  her  money.  Donald  had  not  exag- 
gerated.    It  was  six  thousand  per  annum. 

But  it  soon  appeared  that  some  of  this  really  ample 
income  was  already  disposed  of — not  available  for  them- 
selves. A  number  of  her  husband's  poor  relations  were  de- 
pendent on  her  bounty;  she  made  annual  allowances  to 
many  indigent  hangers-on. 

"In  a  small  way,"  she  said,  "I  did  what  you  did  on 
such  a  large  scale.  .  .  .  No,  don't  attempt  to  deny  it. 
I  know.  Miss  Workman  told  me — and,  Lenny,  I  loved 
you  for  doing  it." 

And  as  well  as  relatives  there  were  old  servants. 

"Yes,"  said  Lenny.  "That's  a  claim  one  can't  escape 
from.     I  had  to  provide  for  my  poor  father's  staff." 

She  spoke  of  doing  things  in  a  small  way;  but  when  she 
16  235 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

went  on  to  particularize,  it  seemed  that  she  had  mort- 
gaged her  resources  in  a  preposterously  large  way.  There 
was  no  end  to  her  allowances  and  pensions. 

"I  feel,  Lenny,  that  I  could  never  stop  them.  But  of 
course  all  these  people  are  old.  They  will  die,  and  then 
the  money  will  be  free  again.  It  is  a  lot  of  money  to  be 
going  out  every  year  to  people  you  have  never  seen — but  I 
don't  think  you'll  mind.     You  won't  mind?" 

"Mind?" 

Certainly  he  did  not  mind — but,  as  a  mere  matter  of 
arithmetic,  she  had  with  a  few  words  reduced  that  noble 
income  of  six  thousand  to  little  more  than  four  thousand. 

"Sure,  Lenny?"     She  was  looking  at  him  deprecatingly. 

"My  dear  Helen,  can  you  suppose  that  I  should  have 
the  effrontery  to  dictate  to  you  how  you  are  to  deal  with 
your  money?" 

"No,  but  it  isn't  my  money  any  longer.  It  is  our  money. 
That's  why  I  am  bothering  you  with  all  these  details;" 
and  she  spoke  very  eagerly.  "Now  that  I  have  a  lord  and 
master,  I  am  not  even  a  half  partner  in  the  firm.  I  shall 
never  draw  on  our  funds  without  first  asking  leave." 

He  was  touched  by  her  eagerness  to  arrive  at  this  clear 
understanding.  It  struck  him  as  unselfish,  chivalrous,  really 
fine;  and  he  immediately  showed  his  appreciation  by  re- 
warding her  with  some  slight  endearments. 

He  stroked  her  fair  hair,  exactly  as  he  used  to  stroke 
Alma's  dark  hair — with  a  gentle  cautious  touch  that  could 
not  disarrange  it. 

Then,  after  a  minute,  he  put  his  hand  round  to  the 
back  of  her  neck,  as  he  had  done  so  often  with  Alma — 
perhaps  wishing  for  one  of  the  old  thrills,  or  proposing  to 
analyse  the  effects  of  a  new  sensation.  But  the  caress 
produced  such  an  effect  in  Helen  that  he  could  not  go 
on  quietly  thinking  about  himself. 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

She  shut  her  eyes,  threw  back  her  head,  and  gasped 
ecstatically. 

"Yes,  do  that,  Lenny.  Oh,  I  like  that.  Hold  me  as 
if  30U  would  never  let  go  of  me.  Be  rough,  and  fierce, 
and  dreadful  to  me.  .  .  .  Say  it,  Lenny, — 'I  have  got 
you.'  X 

"Yes,  I  have  got  you." 

"Oh,  but  much  more  fiercely  than  that.  Say  this — as 
fiercely  as  you  can.  ...  'I  have  got  you,  Helen,  you 
little  wretch ;  and  you  shan't  get  away  from  me.'  " 

He  had  let  his  hand  drop  from  her  neck;  but  she  made 
him  put  it  back  again,  and  to  satisfy  her  he  was  obliged 
to  repeat  the  idiotic  words  that  she  had  invented  for  him. 

He  considered  all  this  very  silly  and  childish — and,  if 
the  truth  must  be  confessed,  not  altogether  nice.  He  was 
quite  glad  when  the  parlour-maid  came  into  the  room  and 
rendered  any  further  endearments  impossible. 

Wonderful — after  all,  he  was  going  on  that  tour  of 
adventure,  and  with  a  companion.  He  had  talked  so 
much  of  his  intention  to  penetrate  far-off  countries,  that 
Helen  knew  all  about  it.  She  embodied  it  in  her  own  plans. 
The  tour — lengthened,  rather  than  shortened — should  be 
their  honeymoon. 

She  said  it  would  be  the  most  entrancingly  original 
honeymoon;  indeed,  the  glory  of  the  idea  threw  her 
always  into  a  mood  that  seemed  the  antithesis  of  the  docile, 
soothing  mood  which  he  so  much  preferred.  When  she 
talked  of  their  travels  she  became  excited,  fantastic,  and 
fatiguingly  romantic.  She  could  not  sit  still.  She  sprang 
up  and  down,  jumped  all  round  the  room,  and  came  jump- 
ing back  to  deluge  him  with  her  enthusiasms. 

"I  am  longing  for  it.  I  pine  for  adventures — with  you, 
Lenny.     .     .     .    We'll  go  far,  far,  far — won't  we,  Lenny? 

237 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

Shall  I  tell  you  some  of  my  dreams?  .  .  .  I  see  us 
sleeping  in  the  desert — beyond  beyond.  People  warned  us 
that  we  ought  not  to  go  so  far — it  would  not  be  safe.  And 
now  our  caravan  has  broken  down — the  drivers  have  de- 
serted us — the  camels  are  dying  of  thirst.  In  the  moon- 
light you  show  me  your  bottle  of  water.  'Only  half  a 
pint,  Helen,  between  us  and  what  is  happening  to  the 
camels.  But  don't  worry,  old  girl,  we'll  sleep  sound  to- 
night— even  if  it  is  to  be  our  last  night  on  earth.'  And 
I  shan't  worry,  Lenny;  we'll  sleep  as  sound  as  two  tired 
babies  in  their  cots." 

"I  wonder!" 

They  were  the  only  words  that  occurred  to  Lenny, — 
and  he  eked  them  out  with  a  feeble  titter. 

"Another  dream.  .  .  .  It  is  night,  and  we  are  in  a 
Chinese  junk.  There  is  a  whisper  of  pirates;  and  you 
have  just  told  me  that  you  are  not  sure  of  the  fidelity 
of  our  own  crew.  In  the  silence  I  hear  you  cock  your 
revolver;  and  we  snuggle  so  close  together  that  we  can 
hear  our  hearts  beating.  The  boat  glides  through  the 
darkness;  and  we  wait — for  the  cast  of  the  great  dice-box, 
for  the  chance  that  was  decided  by  the  stars  millions  of 
years  ago,  for  destruction  or  escape.  Red  death  is  in  the 
air;  monstrous  impalpable  shapes  are  flitting  all  round  us; 
the  forces  of  this  world  and  the  next  are  at  war  for  our 
sakes.  And  I  shall  love  it.  Do  you  understand?  I  prom- 
ise.    I  won't  disgrace  you." 

"I  doubt  if  we  can  get  as  far  as  China,"  he  said  slowly, 
but  with  an  affectation  of  lightness. 

"Very  well.  China,  or  somewhere  else — what  does  it 
matter?  Somewhere  we'll  act  what  dull  souls  here  in  Eng- 
land can  only  dream." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said  slowly,  but  smilingly,  "well  have 
all  sorts  of  larks." 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"That's  what  I  mean.  We'll  drink  deep  of  life — won't 
we? — before  we  settle  down  as  Darby  and  Joan?" 

His  wonder  appeared  to  be  intensified  each  time  that 
he  thought  of  the  mysterious  workings  of  destiny.  He  re- 
membered what  Alma  had  said  about  the  unseen  powers. 
Were  there  any  unseen  powers?  If  so,  it  really  seemed 
as  though  they  had  put  their  heads  together,  and  in  their 
inscrutable  wisdom  pondered  over  the  problem  of  Lenny 
Calcraft. 

They  had  certainly  taken  him  in  charge.  But  could  he 
absolutely  bank  on  the  wisdom  of  their  scheme?  Could 
he  be  quite  sure  that  they  were  doing  the  best  thing  for 
him  by  pushing  him  into  Helen's  arms? 

Wonder  was  beginning  to  change  to  doubt. 


XXV 

FEBRUARY  had  come;  and  they  were  to  be  married 
in   March. 

It  annoyed  him  when  he  learned  that  their  en- 
gagement was  no  longer  a  secret.  Helen  said  that  her 
inquisitive  women  friends  had  guessed  it.  Anyhow,  the 
cat  was  now  out  of  the  bag. 

What  her  friends  knew,  of  course  her  relations  must 
also  know;  and  so  Cousin  Donald  and  the  rest  of  them 
had  all  been  informed  of  the  fact  that  the  prize  was  irre- 
vocably gone.  Lenny  never  saw  Donald  again;  probably 
the  heart-broken  young  man  had  not  fortitude  enough  to 
stand  by  and  watch  the  felicity  of  his  hated  rival.  But 
old  Granville  Yates,  making  the  best  of  a  bad  job,  en- 
deavoured to  cover  his  mortification  with  a  firm  face. 

"Calcraft,  I  congratulate  you;"  and  Mr.  Yates  shook 
hands  effusively.  "You're  a  lucky  fellow — a  very  lucky 
fellow.  But  it  didn't  altogether  astonish  me.  No,  I  was 
one  of  the  first  to  see  which  way  the  wind  was  blowing;" 
and  he  tried  to  laugh  jovially.  But  that  he  could  not  do. 
The  laugh  was  little  more  than  a  grimace;  and  he  looked 
at  Lenny  rather  piteously,  seeming  to  say  without  spoken 
words — "Now  be  a  sportsman.  Let  bygones  be  bygones. 
You  have  won,  and  you  can  afford  to  be  generous.  Don't 
grudge  an  old  chap  a  good  dinner  now  and  then;  and, 
above  all,  don't  run  your  pen  through  his  name  on  the 
Christmas   Pension   list." 

"Many  thanks,"  said  Lenny,  shaking  hands,  and  show- 
240 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

ing  himself  magnanimous  as  a  conqueror  should  be.  In- 
deed, neither  to  Mr.  Yates  nor  to  anybody  else  did  he 
exhibit  any  vulgar  elation  in  his  triumph. 

It  annoyed  him  exceedingly  when  Helen  explained  that, 
in  spite  of  her  desire  to  please  him,  the  wedding  could  not 
be  as  quiet  as  he  wished. 

"Lenny,"  she  said,  "I'm  afraid  we  can't  get  off  quite  so 
cheaply." 

And  she  told  him  that  all  her  friends  advised  her  of 
the  impropriety,  the  practical  impossibility,  of  avoiding  some 
little  fussiflcation.  Friends  would  be  wounded  if  they 
were  not  allowed  to  attend  the  ceremony  at  the  church; 
and  a  few  of  them  at  least — her  really  old  friends — must 
be  asked  to  the  house. 

"Just  to  say  good-bye,  and  wish  us  luck,  Lenny." 

"Oh,  hang  them  and  their  wishes,"  said  Lenny,  with 
petulance,  even  with  rudeness.  He  was  inwardly  fuming, 
and  could  not  hide  his  annoyance.  "Tell  them  to 
send  their  wishes  by  post — or  keep  them  till  I  ask  for 
them." 

" Lenny  1"  She  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  but,  although 
protesting,  spoke  meekly.  "Why  are  you  so  cross  with 
me?     Don't  be  unkind." 

"I'm  not  cross  with  you — I'm  cross  with  all  these  gap- 
ing jackasses  who  want  to  shove  their  noses  into  our  private 
affairs." 

"Lenny!  It  is  so  natural.  Why  do  you  object  to  let- 
ting people  see  us  hand  in  hand?  Are  you  ashamed  of 
your  wife?  Lenny,  it  isn't  kind — when  I  am  so  proud 
of  you  that  I  would  like  the  whole  world  to  see  us  getting 
married." 

He  thought  she  was  about  to  burst  into  tears,  and  he 
was  compelled  to  stifle  his  irritation  and  to  speak  in  a 
gentler  tone. 

241 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"My  dear  Helen,  don't  be  absurd.  If  I  seem  upset, 
it  is  because  I  dislike  having  my  arrangements  interfered 
with  by  outside  pressure.  And  I  thought  you  and  I  were 
of  one  mind:  we  were  to  decide  for  ourselves;  we  were 
not  to  be  trammelled  by  mere  conventions.  Besides,  if 
it  comes  to  conventions,  I  have  the  best  of  all  reasons — 
I  am  in  mourning.  My  poor  father  has  not  been  dead  a 
year.  But  there  are  other  reasons — beyond  that — and  just 
as  good." 

"Very  well,  Lenny.  Only  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  the 
other  reasons." 

Of  course  he  could  not  tell  her  the  real  reason — Alma. 
He  wished  to  spare  Alma  unnecessary  pain.  She  was  not 
to  hear  of  the  marriage.  It  would  be  the  bridegroom's  duty 
to  send  advertisements  to  the  newspapers  after  the  ceremony 
had  taken  place;  but  he  had  decided  to  omit  the  perform- 
ance of  this  duty. 

Yet  he  knew  now  that  he  would  be  beaten.  Helen  would 
somehow  get  round  all  his  objections  to  publicity.  She 
and  her  friends  would  finally  have  their  own  way. 

No  elation.  He  went  about  his  work  dully  and  heavily. 
He  was  buying  his  trousseau;  but  he  had  little  pleasure 
in  what  should  have  been  so  interesting  and  amusing.  It 
was  a  large  trousseau.  Naturally  he  required  an  immense 
amount  of  clothes,  since  he  had  to  fit  himself  out  for  all 
countries  and  all  climates. 

Sometimes  when  sitting  at  a  hosier's  counter  or  standing 
before  a  tailor's  cheval  glass,  his  mind  wandered. 

"A  shade  fuller  in  the  back,  sir?" 

He  did  not  answer  the  tailor. 

"These  are  quite  impervious  to  cold,  sir.  .  .  .  How 
many  pairs,  sir?" 

He  had  not  heard  the  hosier's  words.     His  mind  was 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

occupied  with  things  more  portentous  than  lounge  jackets  or 
silk  under-garments. 

Sometimes,  too,  when  selecting  small  articles,  such  as 
neckties,  pocket  handkerchiefs,  or  socks,  he  had  a  sensa- 
tion of  total  powerlessness. 

"Which  one,  sir?  .  .  .  You  chose  the  dark  green, 
didn't  you,  sir?" 

He  did  not  know  what  colour  he  had  chosen,  and  he 
could  not  choose  again.  It  was  as  though  he  had  been 
suddenly  deprived  of  all  freedom  of  choice,  and  he  stood 
face  to  face  with  the  inevitable.  It  was  a  question  for 
destiny,  and  not  for  him.  Fate,  which  was  doing  every- 
thing else  for  him,  must  do  this  also.  He  was  in  the  hands 
of  fate:  an  impotent  puppet  until  the  unseen  powers  pulled 
his  strings. 

"Thank  you,  sir.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  thought  you  said  the 
green." 

He  had  said  nothing.  Fate  had  decided  for  him.  The 
green  or  the  blue? — he  accepted  the  tie,  just  as  he  was 
about  to  accept  the  wife  that  had  been  given  him. 

But  such  fancies  had  a  quality  of  volume  and  massive- 
ness  that  almost  inspired  awe.  The  surrender  of  volition 
and  the  yielding  to  extraneous  duress  caused  dolorous 
qualms.  He  felt  as  a  child  might  feel,  after  paddling 
within  reach  of  nurse,  when  it  is  swept  off  its  feet  and  finds 
itself  in  deep  water. 

This  marriage — the  most  tremendous  event  of  his  life — 
was  being  accomplished  mechanically. 

Lacking  in  repose!  He  could  not  disguise  from  him- 
self that,  the  better  he  knew  her,  the  more  positively  wa9 
he  assured  of  the  fact.  Temperament,  training,  habit, 
had  each  had  its  part,  no  doubt,  in  producing  her  now 
characteristic   excitability.       She    was    one    Helen    to-day; 

243 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

to-morrow  she  would  be  another  Helen.  When  you  rang 
the  bell  and  went  upstairs,  you  could  never  correctly  guess 
which  Helen  you  were  going  to  find — the  meek  one,  the 
dashing  one,  or  the  fantastically  romantic  one. 

Plainly  she  was  a  creature  of  violent  ups  and  downs, 
with  far  too  many  moods,  without  any  permanent  attri- 
bute except  instability.  And  intellectually  she  let  herself 
go  much  too  freely — almost  every  idea  to  her  became  for 
a  time  an  engrossing  idea.  He  thought  of  that  impetuous 
rush  to  the  Tate  Gallery,  of  the  irksome  afternoon  at  the 
British  Museum,  and  of  her  wild  ravings  about  African 
deserts  and  Chinese  junks.  Whatever  the  whim  of  the 
moment,  it  was  strong  enough  to  run  away  with  her. 

And  there  were  things  that  vaguely  distressed  him. 
Some  of  her  ideas  occasioned  disturbance — as  though  they 
were  beating  at  the  doors  of  his  mind,  trying  to  force  their 
way  into  the  sanctuary,  and  meaning  to  turn  everything 
upside  down  when  they  got  inside.  If  she  had  an  undrilled 
army  of  vagrant  thoughts,  she  ought  at  least  to  keep  them 
within  the  limits  of  her  own  dominions,  and  not  allow  them 
to  go  raiding  across  her  neighbour's  frontier. 

He  had  never  been  able  to  understand  her  queer  notions 
concerning  Egyptian  and  Grecian  sculpture; — and  perhaps 
there  was  something  lurking  there  which  he  would  not 
wish  to  understand,  even  if  he  could. 

But  she  was  very  fond  of  him — almost  pathetically 
fond  of  him.  Yes,  but  the  trick  of  asking  for  kisses,  in- 
stead of  waiting  for  them!  There  was  vague  discomfort 
about  that:  it  was  paralysing  rather  than  stimulating.  He 
did  not  like  that  sharp  application  of  the  spur  in  love-mak- 
ing, as  though  he  had  been  a  sluggish  horse  not  galloping 
at  his  fences  fast  enough. 

She  could  not  assume  the  existence  of  latent  emotion ;  she 
244 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

demanded  outward  manifestations;  and  she  sought  to  con- 
trol where  she  should  merely  submit. 

Here  it  was  again — the  demand  for  what  should  have 
been  left  to  his  impulse,  a  reversal  of  customary  procedure, 
too  much  activity  in  the  traditionally  passive  agent. 

He  knew  it  was  coming,  directly  the  visitor  began  to 
take  leave.  They  were  in  the  drawing-room;  and  that 
same  fat  lady,  encountered  by  Lenny  when  he  paid  his  first 
ceremonious  call,  archly  and  laughingly  withdrew;  saying 
she  would  be  a  wretch  if  she  stayed  longer,  she  knew  that 
two  were  company  and  three  were  none — or  other  equally 
silly  words  to  the  same  effect.  Helen  escorted  her  to  the 
staircase;  and  Lenny  remembered  how  she  had  escorted 
him  and  left  the  fat  lady  behind.  He  fidgeted  nervously 
while  listening  to  Helen's  voice  outside  on  the  landing. 

Ah !  She  was  returning.  She  shut  the  door,  came  slowly 
across  the  room  to  him,  and  looked  at  him  with  half-closed 
eyes. 

"Lenny — we  are  alone  at  last." 

He  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  kissed  her.  Then  he 
began  to  stroke  her  hair. 

"Is  that  all?"  Her  eyelids  drooped  still  more,  and  she 
continued  to  smile.  "Lenny,  you  don't  know  how  to  make 
love — not  a  little  bit." 

"Don't  I?"  His  voice  sounded  flat  and  toneless.  Her 
smile  enervated  him.  It  seemed  to  have  in  it  something 
if  not  mocking,  distinctly  bothering. 

"You  don't  realize  my  dreams.  You  are  not  the  impas- 
sioned prince  of  the  fairy  books,  and  you  are  not  the  bully- 
ing overpowering  lover  of  modern  problem  plays; — but 
you  are  very  sweet,  dear  Lenny — the  only  lover  I  want. 
.     .     .     But,  Lenny,  we'll  keep  our  youth — our  emotional 

245 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

life — for  a  little  while,  won't  we?     We  won't  be  too  ra- 
tional?  We  won't  let  old  fogeyism  overtake  us — directly?" 
It  enervated  him. 

For  the  second  time,  and  in  the  same  place,  a  wonderful 
coincidence!  Lenny  was  in  the  hall  of  the  club;  and  once 
more  the  stream  of  his  thoughts  and  the  sequence  of  exter- 
nal facts  seemed  to  run  together,  and  for  a  time  to  flow  as 
one. 

He  had  been  talking  to  two  jolly  members  near  the  news- 
boards,  and  they  turned  their  heads  to  greet  a  man  who 
was  coming  down  the  stairs. 

"Hullo,  Kindersley!     How  goes  it?" 

"Oh,  I'm  better — I'm  picking  up  again;"  and  the  man 
paused  to  rest. 

Then  he  slowly  and  painfully  came  down  the  last  few 
steps  into  the  hall.  Lenny  did  not  know  the  man,  had 
never  seen  the  man  before;  and  he  watched  him,  as  with 
many  pauses  he  dragged  himself  across  the  hall  towards 
the  morning-room  corridor.  A  cripple — livid  face,  sunken 
eyes,  bald  head,  contorted  limbs;  a  poor  wretch  of  middle 
age,  but  decrepit  as  a  dotard,  leaning  on  his  stick,  shaking, 
gasping  for  breath! 

"Poor  old  Kindersley!"  Lenny's  two  friends  talked  to 
each  other  about  the  crippled  man.  "Always  thinks  he's 
better — but  he  never  will  be." 

"No.  I  swear  you'd  scarcely  recognize  him.  I  never 
saw  such  a  frightful  wreck." 

"And  so  rapid — all  in  a  few  years.  D'you  remember 
the  way  he  used  to  race  up  those  stairs — two  steps  at  a 
time?" 

"Three  steps  at  a  time — like  a  boy  just  let  out  of  school." 

"What,"  asked  Lenny,  "is  the  matter  with  him?" 

"Rheumatism,  neuritis,  nervous  exhaustion — done  for!" 
24,6 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Er — was  it  an  accident?" 

Lenny  asked  for  information,  simply  because  he  could 
not  help  doing  so.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  knew  already 
what  his  friends  were  going  to  say,  that  he  had  dreamed 
this  conversation  many  years  ago,  and  had  vaguely  remem- 
bered it  ever  since. 

"An  accident?"  And  one  of  his  friends  smiled  at  the 
other.  "Well,  that's  a  question.  The  doctors  tell  him  it 
is  constitutional.  But  in  my  opinion,  it  was  an  accident — 
an  accident  that  he  ought  to  have  avoided." 

"Er — how  do  you  mean?" 

Again  Lenny  was  compelled  to  inquire,  although  seem- 
ing to  know  well — too  well — all  that  could  be  said  about 
Kindersley's  sad  case. 

"I  mean,  he  put  off  marrying  until  he  should  have  put 
it  off  altogether." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  man,  "and  chose  the  wrong  sort 
of  wife." 

They  went  on  talking;  and  Lenny  felt  a  curious  prickly 
inward  heat,  and  then  a  cutaneous  coldness. 

It  appeared  that  the  wife  chosen  by  Kindersley  proved 
to  be  a  merciless  little  beast — a  pleasure-loving  young 
woman,  who  required  unceasing  attention,  who  kept  her 
husband  on  the  dance,  made  him  rush  about  after  her,  gave 
him  no  rest.  And  Lenny's  friends  nodded  their  heads  and 
smiled  sagely.     "Oh,  /  know  the  sort." 

"So  do  I,  old  boy." 

"Insatiable.  ...  I  may  be  wrong;  but  that's  my 
opinion,  whatever  the  doctors  tell  him.  It  was  marriage 
that  broke  up  Kindersley.  .  .  .  Comin'  to  lunch,  Cal- 
craft?" 

Lenny  nervously  fingered  his  moustache;  his  face  was 
invaded  by  a  dullish  pallor;  he  stood  staring  at  the  distant 
swing  doors  through  which  the  cripple  had  vanished. 

<24T 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

That  night  he  scarcely  slept  a  wink.  He  kept  the 
electric  light  burning.  He  had  made  up  a  big  fire,  and  yet 
he  felt  cold,  shivering  and  tossing  beneath  all  the  thick 
blankets  and  the  eider-down  quilt.  He  was  so  thirsty  that, 
having  finished  the  siphon  of  soda-water  on  the  table  by 
his  bed,  he  got  up  and  began  to  drink  the  contents  of  the 
washing-stand  carafe.  He  had  emptied  that  too  before  the 
daylight  came. 

Something  had  upset  him — it  was  quite  obvious. 

And  all  night  his  mind  worked  busily — could  not  by  any 
effort  be  prevented  from  working.  Hour  after  hour  he 
thought  of  Helen. 

Desperately  excitable,  avid  for  pleasure,  unable  to  rest  or 
to  permit  other  people  to  rest! 

He  did  not  go  to  see  her  next  day.  He  felt  too  tired 
to  do  anything  except  sit  about  in  armchairs,  or  loll  on 
couches.  He  was  so  unaccustomed  to  sleeplessness  that  one 
bad  night  seemed  to  have  produced  an  incredible  fatigue. 
He  hoped,  however,  to  recover  himself  by  long  hours  of 
deep  slumber;  and  to  this  end  he  dined  early — eating  very 
little,  but  drinking  copiously — and  was  safe  in  bed  before 
ten  p.  m. 

He  could  not  sleep.  The  second  night  was  more  terrible 
than  the  first.     Really  his  distress  became  acute. 

He  thought  of  his  future  wife.  Of  course  she  had  many 
good  qualities;  but  there  were  things  about  her  that  he 
did  not  like — no  evading  the  discomfort  of  this  certainty. 
And  beyond  the  realm  of  certainty,  all  the  doubts,  interro- 
gations, surmises? 

She  was  a  restless  woman.  She  was  an  unbalanced, 
neurotic,  self-assertive  woman — a  companion  who  would 
require  unceasing  attention,  who  would  keep  one  on  the 
dance,  who  would  eventually  wear  one  out. 

He  sprang  up  in  bed,  gulped  some  soda-water,  and 
248 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

sniffed  the  warm  air.  Something  was  haunting  him  and 
intensifying  his  discomfort.  He  could  not  get  away  from 
it  now,  any  more  than  he  would  be  able  to  get  away  from 
it  year  after  year  for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  And  he 
did  not  like  it,  had  never  really  liked  it. 

All  these  harassing  ideas,  together  with  the  want  of 
sleep,  seemed  to  bring  him  into  a  state  of  semi-delirium. 
His  mind  began  to  work  erratically  and  explosively.  Old 
discarded  notions  and  brand-new  imaginations  blended; 
memory  without  warning  pushed  aside  conjecture,  and 
was  itself  thrust  into  the  dark  background  by  luminous 
intuition;  past,  present,  and  future  became  jumbled;  but 
each  thought,  no  matter  what  its  fuel,  seemed  to  flash 
and  blaze  with  a  brightness  as  remarkable  as  its  tran- 
siency. 

He  was  walking  in  tight  patent  leather  boots  amid  the 
tombs  of  the  Pharaohs — soon  she  would  be  making  him 
gallop  all  round  them  on  a  thirsty  camel.  Now  she  was 
looking  at  him  with  half-closed  eyes  and  asking  him  how 
much  strength  he  possessed  behind  his  grace  and  symmetry. 
He  was  getting  her  out  of  trouble  on  a  Channel  steamer, 
and  she  was  getting  him  into  trouble  on  a  Chinese  junk. 
They  were  lying  out  together  under  the  stars;  they  were 
sitting  side  by  side  at  brilliantly  illuminated  restaurants; 
they  were  standing  face  to  face  in  dim  hotel  apartments. 
But  wherever  they  were,  far  or  near,  in  the  past,  present 
or  future,  he  could  not  get  away  from  that  eternal  perfume 
of  violets. 

Why  would  she  persist  in  using  it?  Why  not  ask  him 
which  scent  he  preferred — if  any  at  all?  Certainly  not 
that  insidiously  penetrating  muck!  But  no — in  spite  of 
all  fair  promises, — her  whim  was  to  rule  and  guide  every 
decision,  great  or  small.  Too  self-centred!  A  diffusive 
wave   of  just    irritation   moderated    the    flaming   condition 

2i9 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

of  his  mind,  and  gave  some  slight  argumentative  continuity 
to  the  thoughts. 

What  was  it  that  old  Granville  Yates  said  so  tersely? 
Number  One  is  Helen's  law!  She  talked  too  much  about 
herself — he  had  noticed  that,  the  first  time  she  ever 
spoke  to  him  freely.  Self,  self,  self!  He  remembered 
how,  drinking  tea  with  her  at  the  Westchurch  hotel,  he 
could  hardly  get  a  word  in  edgewise.     It  was  all  I — I — II 

And  with  another  and  a  bigger  wave  of  irritation, 
there  came  back  to  him  nearly  the  whole  of  that  twilight 
conversation.  She  had  told  him  the  tale  of  her  disap- 
pointment after  marrying  her  first  husband.  .  .  .  Who 
and  what  was  Fletcher?  What  could  be  said  against 
him?  Her  own  relations  described  him  as  a  queer  fish. 
If  that  was  the  worst  they  could  say  of  him,  it  didn't 
amount  to  much.  Not  a  bad  fellow  at  all,  very  likely. 
Older  than  Helen,  of  course — and  she  made  that  out 
a  crime.     But  he  left  her  all  his  money  when  he  died. 

Dead!    Fletcher  died.      Was  Fletcher  worried  to  death? 

Suddenly  he  jumped  up  once  more.  Some  of  her  words, 
uttered  when  the  room  had  become  quite  dark,  now 
sounded  in  his  ear  again,  with  a  new  and  intolerably 
irritating  import.  Word  for  word,  the  exact  words — this 
was  the  worst  she  herself  could  say  of  Fletcher.  "He  was 
not  the  husband  a  girl  had  the  right  to  expect." 

What  the  devil  did  she  expect  in  a  husband?  She  had 
better  marry  one  of  those  mammoth  bulls  at  the  British 
Museum. 

Logic  was  gone  again.  He  pulled  the  thick  bed-clothes 
to  his  chin,  and  lay  thinking  about  her.  He  felt  hot  and 
cold,  full  and  empty,  enormous  and  microscopic.  And  he 
thought  of  her  as  a  creature  deadly  and  dangerous — beau- 
tiful, catlike,  terrible  ...  the  tiger  .  .  ,  the 
snake.     ,     .    -     the  basilisk. 

250 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

And  then  thought  ended.  Fancies,  imaginations,  memo- 
ries, seemed  to  be  swept  out  of  his  mind  by  a  force  that 
was  stronger  than  thought.  Something  tremendous  and 
majestic  had  arisen,  and  all  yielded  to  its  sway. 

Lenny  grew  calm  in  presence  of  this  sovereign  power. 
Its  voice  spoke  to  him  throughout  every  fibre  and  cell  of 
his  weary  frame.  "Lenny,  O  beloved  one," — deep  down 
to  his  toes,  high  up  to  the  top  of  his  head,  everywhere,  the 
voice  was  speaking — "I  am  the  over-lord  of  all  the  instincts, 
to  the  meanest  of  which  the  loftiest  of  the  thoughts  are 
but  servants.  I  am  the  instinct  of  self-preservation.  Now 
I  issue  my  decree.  .  .  .  Escape.  At  all  costs,  escape. 
Escape." 

He  wrote  to  her  at  immense  length.  It  was  an  extraor- 
dinarily difficult  letter  to  write,  and  the  only  way  seemed 
to  be  by  making  it  long.  He  started  at  it  immediately  after 
breakfast,  and  despatched  it  in  a  cab  about  lunch  time. 

Then,  assisted  by  the  hotel  boots,  he  began  to  pack  his 
trousseau.  He  was  going  on  the  honeymoon  before  the 
stipulated  date — and  he  was  going  alone. 

He  got  her  reply  during  the  evening;  and  he  read  it  as 
he  sat,  tired  but  comfortable,  by  the  bedroom  fire. 

.  .  .  "Am  I  wrong  to  answer  you  ?  Would  it  be  more 
dignified  to  accept  your  astounding  communication  in  silence, 
and  never  let  you  know  how  much  or  how  little  it  had 
hurt  me?  Or  should  I  quote  that  sentiment  of  melodrama 
which,  however  worded,  always  evokes  a  round  of  applause? 
'The  man  who  strikes  a  woman,'  etc.  When  you  were 
filling  all  those  pages  with  quite  unintelligible  excuses, 
did  you  think  for  a  moment  that  the  worst  blow  a  woman 
can  receive  is  one  directly  aimed  at  her  pride  as  a  woman? 
And  did  you  remember  how  I  of  all  women  would  prob- 
ably suffer  most  under  such  a  blow  coming  from  you  ?" 
17  251 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

What  a  number  of  questions!  Wherever  he  looked,  he 
saw  notes  of  interrogation.  Her  letter  seemed  to  bristle 
with  them. 

"It  was  /  who  asked  for  love,  and  it  was  you  who  said 
you  had  love  to  give.  I  began  by  being  unconventional, 
and  I  will  be  unconventional  to  the  end.  I  won't  reproach 
you;  but  I  insist  on  having  an  explanation." 

That  was  rather  fine  of  her.  No  reproaches,  no  recrim- 
inations.    Considerable  dignity! 

"You  speak  of  a  mistake,  but  you  don't  in  the  least  let 
me  know  the  nature  of  the  mistake.  If  a  mistake  has 
been  made,  I  suppose  it  is  I  who  have  made  it.  Yet  I 
cannot  believe  it.  I  cannot  have  been  mistaken  in  you  all 
along.  And  yet  again,  the  man  I  took  you  for  could 
scarcely  treat  me  in  this  manner." 

And  once  more  he  thought  that  there  was  something 
very  fine  about  her.  She  had  many  estimable  qualities — ■ 
candour,    straightforwardness,    generosity,    amongst    others. 

"Dear  Lenny,  when  I  first  read  your  letter,  I  thought 
there  could  be  only  one  possible  explanation.  I  thought 
you  must  be  mad.  But  I  now  see  that  this  was  my  pride 
struggling  to  defend  itself.  .  .  .  No,  I  will  hope  that 
there  is  truly  some  misunderstanding  between  us,  and  that 
it  may  yet  be  cleared  up. 

"Of  course,  if  you  have  changed  your  mind,  I  shall  not 
ask  you  to  change  it  again.  Certainly,  if  you  don't  want 
to  marry  me,  I  don't  want  to  marry  you.  But  I  do  ask 
— as  my  right — that  you  should  tell  me  the  real  truth. 

"Come  and  see  me  to-morrow  morning,  and  we'll  talk 
like  sensible  people.     Come  early — 10.30." 

But  at  10.30  next  morning  he  was  in  the  boat  train 
somewhere  between  London  and  Dover. 

Every  mile  that  took  him  further  away  from  her  made 

253 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

him  feel  lighter  and  more  comfortable.  The  mental  relief 
and  the  sense  of  freedom  were  infinitely  greater  than  after 
he  had  got  rid  of  Alma ;  and,  thinking  now  with  deep  grati- 
tude of  how  he  had  been  led  by  devious  ways  and  dark 
places,  in  danger,  in  fear,  but  finally  delivered,  he  under- 
stood that  when  fate  seemed  stupid,  it  was  because  he  him- 
self failed  to  interpret  its  ultimate  intentions. 

He  could  see  clearly  now.  He  understood  that  all  his 
uneasiness  was  caused  by  a  wise  repugnance  to  thraldom. 
There  had  been  too  much  of  that  in  the  past.  Dr. 
Searle  said  so.  Doubtless  his  was  a  mind  that,  for  its  de- 
velopment, required  absolute  freedom;  and  mysteriously 
and  wonderfully  he  had  now  worked  through  the  long 
battle  to  achieve  the  fullest  emancipation  that  is  pos- 
sible. 

The  sky  and  the  sea  smiled  at  him; — smooth  crossing, 
delicious  luncheon,  flying  express; — lights  and  more  lights, 
the  town  of  light — Paris!  He  stayed  in  Paris  two  or  three 
days — to  repose  tired  nerves  and  taste  his  happiness.  Oh, 
the  joy  of  novelty!  No  friends,  no  acquaintances,  a  land 
of  strangers.  What  cutlets,  what  coffee,  what  sleep  in  the 
odd  French  bed! 

He  strolled  along  the  boulevards,  he  drove  about  in  the 
jolly  little  coupes,  he  went  to  places  of  entertainment. 
Lounging  round  the  big  hall  at  the  Folies  Bergeres,  he  saw 
himself,  cloudily  but  splendidly,  through  the  haze  of  to- 
bacco smoke,  in  several  looking-glasses.  A  robust,  prince- 
like figure — stiff  shirt,  white  waistcoat,  silk  hat  becomingly 
cocked;  the  man  of  the  world;  the  cosmopolitan,  who  is 
never  less  alone  than  when  alone. 

It  is  difficult,  however,  to  keep  quite  to  oneself  at  the 
Folies  Bergeres.  He  paid  a  few  bocks,  for  the  good  of 
the  house  and  for  the  honour  of  old  England;  he  laughed 
and  he  chaffed;  then  he  went  back  to  his  stall,   enjoyed 

233 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

the  ballet,  and  admired  the  charming  agile  dancers.  He 
could  still  admire  pretty  women. 

With  pleasure  he  recognized  that  the  sensuous  side  of 
his  nature,  which  lately  had  seemed  asleep,  was  reasserting 
itself.  Mrs.  Fletcher  had  induced  a  numbness,  almost  a 
paralysis,  in  all  normal  impulses;  but  now  they  were  again 
becoming  operative.  He  had  not  forgotten  how  to  make 
love. 

After  a  happy  day  or  two  he  was  fortunate  enough  to 
secure  the  services  of  an  accomplished  courier-valet;  and 
with  this  useful  attendant  he  soon  left  Paris  for  the  South 
of  France. 


XXVI 

A  HAPPY  time,  a  restful  time. 
Lenny  had  a  feeling  that,  like  a  flower  too  long 
deprived  of  sunshine,  he  was  blooming  late.  An- 
other feeling  was  that  the  Riviera  had  been  made  for  him. 
It  was  Westchurch  on  a  grander  scale,  with  gorgeous  white- 
towered  casinos  instead  of  humble  low-roofed  clubs,  and 
royal  or  serene  highnesses  performing  the  social  functions 
of  Miss  Workman. 

He  did  truly  love  the  azure  coast.  He  played  baccarat 
— as  a  modest  "debout" — at  the  Cercle  Nautique,  Cannes; 
he  risked  a  few  cart  wheels  and  shot  a  few  pigeons  at 
Monte  Carlo,  rode  donkeys  among  the  olives  behind  San 
Remo, — and  thoroughly  enjoyed  himself.  Days  that 
shone  out  brightly  on  memory's  still  vivid  page  were 
those  of  the  Mentone  Regatta,  when,  wearing  his  white 
ducks,  he  lunched  on  the  yacht  of  an  affable  Grand  Duke; 
and  the  Nice  Carnival,  when,  wearing  his  snuff-coloured 
flannels,  he  rode  in  a  winning  carriage  with  an  extremely 
affable  French  actress.  On  each  occasion  he  felt  that  he 
had  blossomed  into  something  very  big  indeed.  His  name 
appeared  in  the  New  York  Herald — he  was  somebody. 

He  spent  the  month  of  May  on  the  Italian  lakes;  and 
then  ran  through  the  Alps  to  Switzerland  for  the  summer. 
This  admirably  managed  republic  pleased  him:  nothing 
could  be  better  devised  than  all  the  arrangements  for  the 
convenience  of  tourists,  so  long  as  one  had  the  sense  to 
remain  on  the  beaten  track.     Of  course  if  you  wandered 

255 


IN   COTTON  WOOU 

off  it,  you  were  asking  for  annoyance.  But  Lenny  never 
did  so.  He  climbed  the  summits  of  the  highest  mountains 
that  can  be  reached  by  cog-railway,  explored  the  wildest 
and  most  romantic  gorges  that  are  open  to  ordinary 
wheeled  traffic;  and  not  once,  but  again  and  again, 
convinced  himself  that  the  Swiss  still  hold  the  record  as 
hotel-keepers.  After  three  months  he  was  able  to  say — in 
fact  said  it  at  many  tables  d'hote — There  is  no  nation  in 
the  world  that  has  a  clearer  comprehension  of  the  meaning 
of  the  word  Comfort. 

A  happy  time.  No  accident  or  real  trouble — and  only 
two  small  events  that  proved  even  temporarily  distressing. 
One  was  the  loss  of  his  valet.  He  had  to  leave  the  poor 
fellow  lying  dangerously  ill  at  Lugano,  and  for  a  little  while 
afterwards  he  was  harassed  by  the  thought  that  perhaps 
he  himself  had  caught  the  infection;  but  no  such  misfor- 
tune befell  him. 

Moreover,  he  found  that,  although  he  at  first  missed 
the  assistance  to  which  he  had  grown  accustomed,  he  was 
able  to  get  on  very  well  without  it;  and  he  had  spent  so 
much  money  on  the  Riviera  that  he  was  not  sorry  to  econo- 
mize.    He  did  not  therefore  re-engage  the  convalescent. 

The  other  little  event  was  the  astounding  announcement 
that  he  read,  by  the  purest  chance,  one  wet  day  in  August. 
He  was  at  an  hotel  high  up  above  the  lake  of  Thun,  and 
idly  looking  at  a  stale  copy  of  the  Times  he  came  bang 
upon  it.  Really  for  several  moments  he  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve his  eyes. 

"Dryden — Reed.  On  the  3rd  inst.,  at  the  Church 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  Hebden  Street,  London,  Gerald  Dry- 
den to  Alma  Reed." 

Alma  married!  Alma  the  wife  of  young  Dryden!  Well, 
upon  my  word,  what  next?     Wonders  will  never  cease — 

256 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

but  this  beats  everything.  The  news  was  so  startling  that 
it  really  upset  him. 

There  was  a  brevity,  an  aggressive  abruptness,  about  the 
wording  of  the  advertisement  that  he  felt  to  be  peculiarly 
distasteful.  It  seemed  to  Lenny  characteristic  of  this  strong- 
willed,  assertive,  and  socially  ignorant  young  man.  He 
ought,  of  course,  to  have  described  himself  properly,  said 
who  his  father  was — without  necessarily  mentioning  the 
auctioneer's  business, — and  not  merely  given  the  bare  names 
— Gerald  Dryden — as  though  they  were  world-famous.  Rid- 
iculous ignorance  of  ordinary  forms  and  common  usages. 
Likely  to  bring  ridicule  on  his  wife.  She  of  course  should 
also  have  been  adequately  described — "Alma,  eldest  daugh- 
ter of  Jervois  Reed,  Esquire,  of  Haven  Lodge,  West- 
church."     Almost  brutal  ignorance! 

But  that  was  like  Gerald.  He  would  never  learn — no 
matter  what  trouble  one  took  with  him.  Too  obstinate 
and  opinionated.  He  seemed  to  listen  attentively  to 
what  one  said,  he  declared  himself  grateful  for  advice,  but 
he  never  acted  on  it  consistently.  He  was  consistent 
only  in  his  own  narrow  ideas.  Pigheaded.  Impossible 
to  turn  him  from  his  purpose.  And  Lenny  thought  of 
that  conversation  in  which  Gerald  had  unfolded  the 
childish  dream  of  his  life.  How  unshaken  he  had  re- 
mained after  all  one's  efforts  to  shake  him!  Because  he 
had  been  in  love  with  Alma  as  a  schoolboy,  he  was  to 
be  in  love  with  her  for  ever;  he  made  a  silly  dream  the 
guiding  star  of  his  whole  existence;  all  the  world  might 
change,  but  he  would  still  be  constant.  Such  rubbish — 
such  utter  rubbish!  Yet  he  conceitedly  and  fatuously 
laughed  at  all  difficulties  or  obstacles.  Alma  knew 
nothing  of  his  infatuation — he  did  not  mind  about  that. 
He  was  not  anxious  for  her  to  know.     He  relied  solely  on 

257 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

himself.  He  must  first  earn  money,  and  a  long  time 
might  pass  before  he  made  sufficient  money — he  did  not 
mind  about  that  either.  He  would  never  cease  to  wish 
for  Alma  as  his  wife,  and  in  the  end  he  would  get  her  for 
his  wife.  And  he  had  done  it.  The  thing  was  so  as- 
tounding that  it  affected  one  with  the  same  creepy  sensa- 
tion, as  when  one  hears  a  well-authenticated  ghost  story. 

Then  Lenny  thought  of  Alma.  Certainly  he  had  not 
wished  that  she  should  perpetually  continue  single  for  his 
sake.  No,  he  had  been  altruistic  enough  sincerely  to 
hope  that  she  would  some  day  meet  with  a  good  husband — 
a  husband  worthy  of  her.  It  had  caused  him  pain  every 
time  that  in  imagination  he  saw  her  still  fretting  for  him. 
But  the  haste — the  almost  indecent  haste — with  which  she 
had  consoled  herself!  Off  with  the  old  love,  and  on  with 
the  new.  Here  had  he  been  suffering  all  sorts  of  anx- 
ieties, while  she  was  quietly  and  secretly  plotting  this  mar- 
riage. Not  a  line  from  her  to  acquaint  him  with  her  inten- 
tion. 

And  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  held  in  his  hand  and  was 
now  reading  the  kind  of  letter  that  one  might  have  ex- 
pected she  would  probably  write,  "My  own  dearest 
Lenny,  perhaps  this  is  the  last  time  that  I  shall  ever 
address  you  in  the  old  way;  for  I  am  about  to  do  some- 
thing which  may  appear  to  you  as  very  strange.  When  I 
see  you  again,  I  will  explain  all  the  reasons  that  have  de- 
cided my  course  of  action;  and  until  I  get  this  opportunity 
I  ask  you  to  suspend  your  judgment."  .  .  .  But  no, 
not  a  line,  not  one  word  of  explanation. 

What  a  marriage!  How  on  earth  could  she  have  dis- 
covered anything  to  attract  her  in  Dryden?  It  was  a  mys- 
tery that  he  felt  he  would  never  fathom.     Incredible! 

And  again  he  thought  of  the  young  man  who  had  once 
been    his    admiring    protege.      So     commonplace,    so   un- 

258 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

polishable,  so  second-class.  Of  course,  Gerald  Dryden 
had  many  good  points — courage,  determination,  perse- 
verance. Great  energy  of  purpose!  Perhaps  in  that  lay 
the  key  to  the  enigma.  Unwavering  aims  and  dogged 
self-conceit — with  no  better  stock  in  trade,  quite  stupid 
people  sometimes  obtain  a  large  measure  of  success. 
Gerald  had  succeeded — he  was  no  less  successful  in  his 
matter-of-fact  business  than  in  his  romantic  dream.  He 
had  earned  the  money;  he  had  won  the  wife. 

Suddenly  Lenny  thought  of  the  wreck  and  the  rescue; 
and  the  memory  of  old  thoughts  mingled  with  these  fresh 
thoughts.  He  remembered  how  he  felt  then  that  Gerald 
had  somehow  frustrated  him,  cheated  him  of  an  oppor- 
tunity, and  generally  got  the  better  of  him.  He  vividly 
recalled  the  past  feeling.  It  was  the  beginning  of  dislike, 
when  there  came  into  his  mind  the  unwelcome  thought  that 
young  Dryden  had  done  the  thing  which  he  ought  to  have 
done  himself. 


XXVII 

FOUR  years  glided  by,  and  in  this  time  Lenny  had 
passed  through  many  phases.  He  was  an  inveterate 
Londoner  now — who  frankly  admitted  that  London 
was  good  enough  for  him,  and  who  did  not  mean  to  run 
about  the  world  in  search  of  anything  better. 

"Sir,"  said  Lenny,  adopting  the  Johnsonian  turn  of 
speech  to  do  honour  to  so  important  a  theme,  "London 
is  more  than  the  centre  of  the  universe:  it  is  a  magnet 
that  draws  everything  to  it.  If  you  stay  quietly  in 
London  there  is  nothing  that  you  won't  see  there,  sooner 
or  later.  And  above  all,  in  London  a  man  can  lead  his 
own  life  without  observation  or  interference.  He  may 
be  very  good  or  very  naughty."  As  Lenny  said  this  sort 
of  thing  he  used  to  smile  meaningly.  "Yes,  sir,  no  one 
cares  a  twopenny  damn  what  his  neighbour  is  up  to — 
and,  between  you  and  me  and  the  post,  he  may  be  up  to 
some  very  strange  tricks.  For  though  you  hear  a  lot  of 
talk  about  the  wickedness  of  Vienna,  Buda-Pesth,  and 
Constantinople,  they  all  take  a  back  seat  to  London."  And, 
making  this  point,  Lenny  rolled  his  head  roguishly,  and 
his  smile  broadened  into  a  complacent  chuckle. 

Either,  then,  Lenny  had  tasted  some  of  the  evil  pleasures 
of  the  vast  town,  or  he  was  not  unwilling  that  listeners 
should  suppose  so. 

Outwardly  he  was  much  the  same  as  ever — less  soldierly 
in  his  bearing  perhaps;  shoulders  not  so  square,  and  in- 
clined to  slouch;  possibly  a  suspicion  of  incipient  paunchi- 

360 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

ness.  But  these  slight  changes  were  not  perceptible  to  him- 
self. The  only  changes  that  the  looking-glass  showed  him 
were  those  of  which  he  fully  approved.  For  instance,  there 
was  a  certain  indescribable  print  of  time  upon  his  face  that 
seemed  to  have  added  distinction  to  what  had  been  merely 
handsome.  The  sun-burn  had  gone,  and  he  did  not  want 
it  back  again;  he  was  habitually  pallid,  and  he  liked  the 
pallor;  the  short  curly  hair  on  each  side  of  his  forehead 
was  quite  grey,  but  he  considered  the  greyness  an  immense 
improvement.  One  day,  caressingly  passing  his  hand  over 
the  top  of  his  head,  he  had  a  scare.  The  hairdresser,  how- 
ever, reassured  him.  "Going  bald?  Certainly  not.  A 
leetle  thin  on  top — that's  all."  The  hairdresser  advised 
him  to  wear  his  hair  longer,  and  to  brush  it  straight  back 
over  the  weak  spot.  He  had  done  so  ever  since,  and  he 
thought  the  new  style  most  becoming. 

On  all  state  occasions — that  is,  whenever  he  had  dressed 
himself  with  especial  care — he  enjoyed  the  old  pleasant 
sensation  of  being  at  once  large,  imposing,  and  fascinating. 
Thus,  when  dining  at  the  club  before  a  first  night  of  a 
fashionable  theatre,  he  used  to  talk  big  because  he  felt  big. 

"I'm  going  round  the  corner  to  see  WagstafFs  new 
piece.  None  of  you  fellows  coming,  I  suppose?  I  go 
myself,  because  I  like  to  see  my  plays  before  the  critics 
have  told  me  the  plots;  but  to-night  I  don't  expect  great 
things.  I  began  by  supporting  Wagstaff,  swearing  he  was 
the  coming  man,  championing  him  through  thick  and  thin 
— but  he  has  disappointed  me  too  often.  Still  I  like  to 
be  there,  don't  you  know." 

When  he  came  downstairs  after  dinner  he  used  to  speak 
of  his  motor-brougham  in  a  very  lordly  tone. 

"Is  my  car  there?     See  if  my  car  is  there." 

"Yes,  sir." 

But  while  the  club  servants  helped  him  on  with  his  muf- 

261 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

fler  and  fur  coat  he  would  relax  in  dignity,  and  talk  to 
them  with  the  same  easy,  chaffing,  kindly  manner  that 
used  to  delight  Mary  and  the  other  maids  at  No.  I,  The 
Crescent. 

"Thank  you,  Collins.  Many  thanks;"  and  he  wrapped 
the  muffler  round  his  neck.  "Good  people  are  scarce,  you 
know." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Gently  with  the  coat.  These  satin  sleeves  are  meant 
to  slip — but  they  don't  slip." 

"No,  sir." 

"Now,  where  are  my  gloves?  Thanks.  I'll  put  them 
on  here,  in  the  warm.  It's  only  round  the  corner,  and  I 
have  ten  minutes  in  hand." 

At  the  theatre,  questions  were  sometimes  asked  about 
Lenny. 

"Who  is  that  man  at  the  end  of  the  second  row?" 

"Haven't  the   remotest  idea." 

"I  see  him  regularly  at  first  nights.  He's  always  alone. 
I've  never  seen  him  speaking  to  a  soul." 

Perhaps  it  often  happened  that  Lenny  met  no  acquaint- 
ances among  the  audience,  but  whenever  he  got  into  con- 
versation with  a  genial  stranger  he  was  ready  to  talk  freely, 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?  Won't  do — that's  what  / 
venture  to  say.  I've  seen  too  much  of  this  class  of  work. 
Very  pretty,  no  doubt;  but  too  namby-pamby — too  tame. 
Nothing  to  grip  the  public.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  critic," 
and  Lenny  smiled  oracularly.  "But  I've  dabbled  in  theat- 
rical enterprises — wasted  more  money  than  I  care  to  count 
— so  possibly  I  know  as  much  about  it  as  some  of  the  news- 
paper gentlemen.  Anyhow,  I've  bought  my  experience  and 
knowledge,  such  as  it  is." 

When  he  got  back  to  the  club,  he  said  this  all  again. 
And  when  at  last  his  motor-brougham  took  him  home  to 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Albert  Street,  he  would  tell  his  landlord  the  story  of  the 
new  play — that  is,  if  Mr.  Jackson  chanced  to  be  sitting 
up  for  him. 

He  lived  in  dear  old  Albert  Street,  but  not  at  the  same 
old  house.  His  rooms  on  the  first  floor,  over  a  picture- 
dealer's  Shop,  were  better  than  any  suite  at  Steel's;  and  the 
fact  that  their  situation  was  a  few  doors  further  from  Bond 
Street  rendered  them  quieter. 

"It's  surprising,  sir,"  said  his  landlord,  "what  a  differ- 
ence it  makes.  Gentlemen  who've  lodged  at  Mr.  Steel's 
tell  me  you  can't  sometimes  hear  yourself  speak.  But  no 
one  has  complained  of  the  traffic  here." 

The  landlord  and  his  wife  were  thoroughly  nice  honest 
people.  Jackson  had  been  a  servant  in  noblemen's  house- 
holds; and  Mrs.  Jackson  was  a  country  woman,  who  con- 
trived to  keep  open  channels  of  communication  with  her 
rustic  family,  by  which  she  drew  supplies  of  unimpeach- 
able new-laid  eggs,  spring  chickens,  and  honey  in  the  comb. 
They  had  earned  and  deserved  a  reputation  for  doing  their 
lodgers  wonderfully  well. 

Lenny  in  the  first  instance  took  his  rooms  by  the  week. 
The  arrangement  was  a  make-shift  or  stop-gap  until  he 
could  find  more  suitable  accommodation.  He  was  looking 
about  for  an  unfurnished  flat,  in  which  he  might  install 
himself  permanently.  But  he  never  found  what  he  wanted, 
and  he  often  used  to  say  to  Mrs.  Jackson,  "I  really  don't 
know  what  to  do,  Mrs.  Jackson." 

Then  one  day,  in  homely  pleasant  fashion,  she  said,  "I 
know  what  I  should  do,  if  I  was  you,  Mr.  Calcraft." 

"What  is  that,  Mrs.  Jackson?" 

"Why,  stop  here,  of  course.  I'm  sure  we  do  our  best 
to  make  you   comfortable." 

"I'm  sure  you  do,"  said  Lenny  cordially. 

"And  of  course  you  could  make  any  little  additions  you 

263 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

pleased — I  mean,  like  altering  the  rooms  or  putting  in 
any  of  your  own  things, — in  which  case  I  answer  for  Mr. 
Jackson  that  he'd  meet  you  in  a  fair  spirit." 

That  solved  the  problem,  and  lifted  another  burden 
from  the  mind  of  Lenny.  He  installed  a  new  bath — not 
so  grand  a  bath  as  that  birthday  present  at  Westchurch, 
but  adequate;  and  he  bought  a  splendid  throne-like 
bed  and  a  new  dressing-table.  The  dressing-table  was 
as  fine  as  a  woman's,  with  a  double-winged  looking-glass, 
innumerable  bottles,  pots,  and  boxes,  and  two  silver- 
gilt  trays  for  his  tortoiseshell  brushes  and  combs.  Very 
little  new  furniture  was  necessary  to  improve  the  sitting- 
room — an  immense  sofa,  an  armchair  with  foot-rest  and 
book-rest  similar  to  those  at  the  club,  a  few  cushions,  and 
two  or  three  of  those  ingenious  electric  bells  on  strings  that 
you  can  trail  about  and  ring,  wherever  you  are,  without 
disturbing  yourself;  and  really  that  was  all. 

Here  then,  with  his  faithful  Jacksons,  Lenny  had  been 
long  established.     This  for  him  was  home. 

At  times  he  lived  splendidly,  but  always  he  lived 
cautiously.  He  knew  what  he  was  doing;  although,  as 
he  fancied,  he  might  appear  to  others  to  be  reckless  and 
lavish.  But  after  what  seemed  extravagance  came  retrench- 
ment. As  he  said  himself,  he  was  always  able  to  draw  in 
his  horns.  For  instance,  he  hired  this  motor-car  for  the 
dark  muddy  months  only,  and  dispensed  with  it  throughout 
the  summer. 

A  man  may  launch  out  boldly  when  he  has  mastered 
the  secret  of  pulling  up  promptly.  The  great  thing  is  to 
control  your  expenses,  whether  great  or  small.  Don't  be 
too  proud  to  act  as  your  own  accountant.  Lenny  kept  ac- 
curate accounts  of  all  his  outgoings — entering  in  his  diary 
the  amount  of  all  cheques  to  Self  practically  broke  the 
back  of  this  job — and  so  he  regularly  knew  how  he  stood 

264, 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

at  each  period  of  the  year.  So  much  already  gone  since 
January  I,  and  only  so  much  more  to  go  before  Decem- 
ber 31. 

He  never  boasted,  or  pretended  to  be  rich.  Indeed  he 
perfectly  understood  that,  although  one's  vanity  may  be 
tickled  by  the  fact  that  friends  suppose  one  is  possessed 
of  large  means,  it  is  not  safe  to  foster  this  erroneous  belief. 
More  will  be  expected  of  you;  in  the  end  it  will  be  said 
that  you  are  mean. 

"No,"  he  used  to  confess  quite  frankly,  "I  am  one  of 
those  unfortunate  people  with  a  fixed  income — and  a  small 
income  at  that.  Nevertheless  I  manage  to  rub  along  on 
it  comfortably  enough.  So,  as  the  pious  old  ladies  say, 
I've  much  to  be  thankful  for!"  and  he  would  laugh  good- 
humouredly. 

But  now  came  a  year  in  which  Lenny  laughed  less  often. 
Why?  He  did  not  know.  He  could  not  understand  the 
cause  of  his  increasing  melancholy.  He  endeavoured 
to  think  about  himself  with  greater  earnestness,  hoping  thus 
to  bring  to  light  and  remedy  the  matters  that  were  vaguely 
troubling  him. 

Once  he  thought  he  had  discovered  a  possible  explanation 
of  his  curious  psychic  state.  His  life  was  narrowing  in- 
stead of  widening. 

But  how  to  open  up  larger  vistas?  If,  as  was  perhaps 
true,  one  had  slipped  into  a  groove,  how  to  get  out  of  it? 
Except  for  a  month  at  the  seaside  during  summer's 
extreme  heat  and  two  or  three  week-end  trips,  he  never 
left  London;  and,  much  as  he  liked  London,  he  now 
admitted  to  himself  that  there  was  a  monotonousness  in 
its  delights.  He  had,  perhaps  unfortunately,  neglected  all 
chances  of  making  a  mark  in  general  society.  The  fact 
was,  he  had  grown  shy  of  society — that  is,  of  dinner-par- 

265 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

ties,  tea-parties,  evening  receptions,  and  so  on.  Numerous 
as  are  the  social  circles  of  this  comprehensive  London  world, 
they  intersect  each  other  so  embarrassingly.  He  had  wished 
to  avoid  all  circles  in  which  he  would  be  likely  to  meet 
Helen  Fletcher  or  any  of  her  set.  But  how  was  that  pos- 
sible? Almost  every  house  that  welcomed  him  would  be 
also  just  the  sort  of  house  to  contain  Mrs.  Fletcher  lurk- 
ing in  a  back  drawing-room,  or  old  Granville  Yates,  or  that 
loutish  Donald,  coming  down  the  stairs.  Helen,  he  be- 
lieved, had  never  said  a  word  to  his  discredit;  but  he  knew, 
as  a  fact,  that  those  people  of  hers — cousins  and  friends — 
had  gone  about  traducing  him  in  the  most  disgraceful  man- 
ner. 

More  than  once  he  had  seen  Helen  herself — outside  a 
Bond  Street  shop,  at  the  private  view  of  a  picture-gallery, 
and  on  the  platform  of  a  railway  station;  and  each  time 
the  sight  of  her  had  upset  him.  She  did  not  see  him,  be- 
cause he  slipped  away  too  quickly. 

In  the  spring  of  this  year  he  felt  a  nostalgic  yearning 
for  a  peep  at  funny  little  old  Westchurch.  He  had  a  sud- 
den conviction  that  Westchurch  would  be  tonic  medicine 
to  him.  Just  to  stroll  along  the  front  and  sniff  the  air 
would  do  him  good.  And  a  glimpse  of  all  the  old  faces 
would  cheer  him  enormously. 

But  no — not  so.  He  had  forgotten.  The  old  faces 
would  look  back  at  him.  Here  again  slanderous  tongues 
had  been  busy;  his  fame  was  darkened;  the  legend  of  youth- 
ful virtues  had  died  hard,  but  it  was  now  stone  dead. 
Very  cruel.  His  own  flesh  and  blood  had  turned  against 
him.  That  sister — Sarah  Holway — took  her  children  to 
stay  one  winter  in  lodgings  on  the  parade,  and  while 
there  had  said  simply  outrageous  things  about  him.  Dr. 
Searle — the    only    person    with    whom    he    had    remained 

266 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

in  touch — wrote  and  reported  the  regrettable  damage  to 
Lenny's  reputation.  Searle  was  bursting  with  indignation, 
but  powerless  to  assist  his  friend.  "Everybody  believes 
her,"  said  loyal  Searle,  "because  she  is  your  sister,  and  no 
one  will  listen  to  me." 

At  the  time,  Lenny  felt  so  strongly  that  he  wrote  to 
his  sister's  husband,  demanding  apologies,  withdrawals,  even 
threatening  libel  actions;  and  the  man  Holway  had  writ- 
ten a  very  decent  reply.  He  said  he  did  not  share  Sarah's 
views,  and  he  would  beg  her  to  refrain  from  expressing 
them  so  injudiciously.  He  offered  thanks  for  the  money 
received  by  his  wife  as  a  free  gift,  and  further  added  that 
she  was  not  truly  in  need  of  any  more  money.  He  himself 
was  prospering  with  his  business.  Lenny  appreciated  Hol- 
way 's  sensible,  straightforward  statements.  Holway  was 
quite  a  good  sort.  But  unhappily  the  mischief  had  been 
done,  and  it  could  not  be  undone. 

And  as  Lenny  recalled  these  things,  there  was  sadness — - 
great  sadness — in  the  thought  that  he  could  never,  never 
go  again  to  dear  little  Westchurch. 

He  was  still  very  fond  of  the  St.  James's  Street  club — 
yet  the  club  had  in  certain  respects  disappointed  him. 
It  had  provided  many  companions,  but  no  friends.  None 
of  them  would  ever  call  him  Lenny.  Often  he  had 
tentatively  tried  to  make  them  do  so — introducing  his  pet 
name  in  anecdotes:  "  'Ask  Lenny  Calcraft,'  that  used 
to  be  the  cry.  .  .  .  'Look  here,  Lenny  Calcraft,'  he 
said  to  me.  All  my  pals  called  me  Lenny.  I  liked  it." 
But  these  new  pals  would  not  take  the  hint. 

Outside  the  club,  he  had  somehow  lost  his  hold  on  the 

old   friends  of  early   days,  of  the  hunting-field,  of  militia 

trainings.     The   indurating  effects  of  time  showed  on   all 

the  men  he  had  once  known.     It  was  not  worth  speaking 

18  267 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

to  them.  A  nod  in  the  street — given  grudgingly, — and  they 
hurried  on,  selfishly  preoccupied  with  their  own  personal 
affairs.     It  was  not  worth  nodding  to  them. 

Even  his  friend  of  friends,  George  Verinder,  the  man  he 
respected  more  than  other  men,  had  turned  cold  or  forget- 
ful. They  never  met  now,  and  they  had  ceased  to  write 
to  each  other. 

The  sense  of  sadness  and  loneliness  deepened  throughout 
this  year.  He  thought  of  himself  with  intense  pity — alone 
in  the  midst  of  a  crowd.  These  words  had  presented  them- 
selves unexpectedly,  and  he  was  continually  echoing  them. 
It  seemed  that  he  had  never  understood  the  pregnant  mean- 
ing of  the  phrase  till  now.     It  exactly  hit  off  his  own  case. 

He  had  a  notion  of  spending  Christmas  out  of  London. 
Advertisements  of  seaside  hotels  that  provided  Christmas 
festivities  for  their  guests  seemed  rather  attractive,  and 
he  vainly  endeavoured  to  find  somebody  at  the  club  willing 
to  join  him  in  a  three-days'  excursion.  But  nobody  would 
go  with  him;  everybody  was  engaged.  It  seemed  that 
he  was  the  only  person  among  the  six  million  inhabitants 
of  London  who  was  thrown  quite  on  his  own  resources 
at  this  season  of  good  will.  He  was  compelled  to  eat  his 
Christmas  dinner  at  the  club. 

A  most  lugubrious  business — the  great  building  empty  of 
life;  nearly  all  the  servants  away,  and  the  few  who  re- 
mained on  duty  resenting  the  necessity  that  kept  them  from 
their  happy  homes.  Only  two  other  members  in  the  huge 
coffee-room,  and  not  even  sitting  together;  making  two 
camps  at  widely  separated  tables,  like  two  mariners  ship- 
wrecked on  a  desert  island,  who  had  not  yet  encountered 
each  other.  One  was  Admiral  Ritson,  a  sufferer  from 
chronic  asthma,  who  never  had  breath  to  speak  to  anybody; 
the  other  was  a  man  called  Porter,  who  from  inclination 

268 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

always  appeared  silent,  reserved,  self-contained.  Lenny  saw 
the  head  waiter  bring  a  small  plum-pudding  and  show  it 
to  Porter  before  cutting  it.  The  cook  had  decorated  it 
with  a  little  flag  and  a  sprig  of  holly.  A  piteous  and  feeble 
reminder  of  rejoicings  which  only  made  one  feel  sadder. 
Porter  closed  the  magazine  that  he  had  been  reading  and 
glanced  at  the  pudding.  He  betrayed  no  emotion,  and  it 
seemed  to  Lenny  that  he  was  one  of  those  priggish  unso- 
cial people  who  like  being  alone,  and  who  would  not  open 
a  conversation  with  strangers  even  on  a  desert  island. 

However,  downstairs  in  the  gloomy  smoking-room,  Por- 
ter did  speak  to  Lenny.  He  and  Lenny  drank  their  coffee 
together,  sat  all  the  evening  together,  and  enjoyed  an  ex- 
tremely pleasant  conversation.  Old  Admiral  Ritson  had 
withdrawn  to  a  distant  corner,  where  he  fell  asleep,  snored 
stertorously,  and  now  and  then  coughed  and  gasped. 

Porter  was  thin  and  grey-haired,  about  fifty-five  years 
of  age,  neat  and  prim  as  to  his  attire,  and  with  a  manner 
that  might  unquestionably  be  set  down  as  priggish.  He 
talked,  too,  rather  sententiously,  and  he  had  queer  little 
finical  gestures.  But  he  proved  to  be  a  man  of  high  intelli- 
gence, an  instructed  man,  a  well-read  man:  altogether 
so  sympathetic  and  agreeable  a  conversationalist  that  Lenny, 
before  the  evening  was  over,  became  extremely  confidential, 
in  fact  unbosomed  himself  of  many  little  troubles. 

"The  other  day,"  said  Lenny,  "I  read  an  article  in  that 
magazine,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  current  copy  which  Por- 
ter was  still  nursing,  "by  a  fellow  who  had  stumbled  on 
something  that  has  often  struck  me.  He  maintained  that 
the  happiest  people  are  people  who  give  themselves  up  to 
hobbies.  No  matter  what  the  hobby — golf,  stamp-collect- 
ing, autograph-hunting — it  serves  its  object  if  it  occupies 
a  fellow,  and  keeps  his  mind  off  the  strain  in  leisure  hours." 

"Oh,  quite,"  said  Porter. 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Developing  the  theory  myself,  I  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  what  we  all  want  is  outside  interests.  We 
get  too  much  engrossed  in  the  ordinary  business  of  life, 
and  we  don't  sufficiently  cultivate  new  interests;  but  I'm 
sure  that  from  time  to  time  one  requires  a  new  interest." 

"Quite,"  said  Porter. 

Lenny  had  already  noticed  Porter's  frequent  employment 
of  the  word  "quite;"  and  he  now  observed  how  by  giving 
it  a  different  intonation  Porter  was  able  to  make  it  suffi- 
cient for  every  purpose.  He  said  it  with  such  sincerity, 
sympathy,  and  comprehension,  that  it  sometimes  sounded  as 
pleasantly  as  a  long  speech  would  have  done. 

"But  what  interests?  Where  is  one  to  unearth  them? 
One  gets  into  a  groove,  one  becomes  blase,  one  has  seen 

so  much  that  one  begins  to  think  there  is  nothing  worth 

'      •       n 
seeing. 

"Quite." 

"Take  myself  as  an  example.  I  was  a  hunting  man — 
hunted  regularly  for  years;  but  then  was  obliged  to  give 
it  up — could  not  afford  it.  Later  on,  when  I  came  into  a 
little  money,  I  might  have  managed  it  again.  But,  some- 
how, I  never  did.  No  one  was  keener  than  I  used  to  be, 
yet  I  didn't  seem  inclined  to  take  it  up  again  after  a  lapse 
of  years.  I  shirked  the  effort.  The  fact  is,  there  are  many 
things  that  one  would  do  if  the  effort  of  doing  them  didn't 
put  one  off. 

"Oh,  quite." 

"I  myself  had  a  reason  for  avoiding  unnecessary  fatigue. 
My  doctors  had  advised  me  to  take  things  easily.  For 
a  number  of  years  my  health  has  not  been  what  it  ought 
to  be;  nevertheless,  I  dare  say  it  was  good  enough  to  have 
stood  a  few  days  with  hounds.  I  don't  say  six  days  a 
week,  or  heavy  days.  But  you  can  get  plenty  of  fun  with- 
out  overdoing   it,      I    see   now   that   the   notion   of  weak 

270 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

health  was  an  excuse — I  mean,  an  excuse  that  I  made  to 
myself  to  explain  my  vis  inertia,  or  laziness.  The  fact  is 
this,  and  there's  no  getting  away  from  it — the  more  you 
save  yourself  from  effort,  the  less  capable  you  are  of  making 
an  effort." 

Porter  said  "Quite"  with  so  much  sympathy,  and  such  a 
full  comprehension  of  what  Lenny  meant,  that  the  con- 
versation went  on  more  pleasantly  than  ever. 

"You  agree  with  me?  You  have  probably  felt  it 
yourself?  But,  again,  about  interests  in  one's  life.  I 
have  several  times  tried  to  find  them.  Take  the  theatre. 
I  go  to  first  nights;  sometimes  I'd  rather  not  go,  but  I 
do  go  all  the  same.  I  like  to  keep  up  my  interest  in  the 
drama.  A  little  while  back  I  interested  myself  in  theatrical 
speculation — in  a  modest  way — you  understand;  musical 
comedy — that  is  the  paying  thing  nowadays.  .  .  .  Would 
you  mind  pushing  the  matches  across?    Thank  you." 

Lenny  lit  another  cigarette,  and  puffed  at  it  reflectively. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  smiling,  "musical  comedy.  Three 
or  four  other  men  and  myself  put  up  our  money.  Not 
much — say  a  hundred  or  two  hundred  pounds  apiece,  to 
back  one  of  these  musical  comedies.  We  sent  it  round  the 
suburban  theatres;  meant  to  take  a  West  End  theatre  if 
we  could  make  it  pay.  It  didn't  pay,  but  it  was  fun, 
you  know.  Very  amusing."  And  Lenny  chuckled.  "I 
suppose  I've  lost  several  hundreds  in  that  sort  of  way,  but 
I  don't  regret  it.  I  got  my  money's  worth.  Naturally 
the  syndicate  had  certain  privileges  as  backers  of  the  show. 
One  went  behind  the  scenes  to  see  how  the  young  ladies 
were  getting  on.  Very  amusing — some  of  those  little 
musical  comedy  actresses.  Always  on  the  look  out  for  a 
capitalist — meaning  to  be  stars  one  day,  and  grateful  to 
anyone  who  will  push  'em  along."  And  Lenny  rolled  his 
head    roguishly    and   chuckled    once   more.      "I    don't    say 

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IN   COTTON   WOOL 

that  one  had  les  droits  de  seigneur;  only,  you  understand, 
one  was  somebody  in  the  theatre — not  a  negligible  quan- 
tity." 

But  Porter  did  not  say  "Quite."  He  looked  serious,  as 
though  his  intuition  had  failed  him,  or  for  the  moment  he 
had  fallen  out  of  sympathy  with  his  companion. 

Lenny  changed  the  subject,  and  went  on  talking. 

"And  many  other  things  I've  tried — more  as  a  duty  than 
a  simple  relaxation.  A  little  racing.  Once  I  had  a  flutter 
on  the  Stock  Exchange — but  I  burnt  my  fingers  at  that. 
Once  bit,  twice  shy — never  tried  it  again.  So  there  you 
are.  One  exhausts  things.  One  has  experiences,  and 
then  there  is  nothing  new  in  repeating  them.  As  I  say, 
where  is  one  to  find  fresh  interests?  It's  all  very  well  talk- 
ing about  them,  but  they  are  like  birds — deuced  difficult 
to  put  salt  on  their  tails." 

"Quite,"  said  Porter. 

Lenny  went  on  talking,  really  unbosoming  himself  with 
complete  candour ;  and  it  was  not  till  the  end  of  the  evening 
that  Porter  began  to  exchange  confidence  for  confidence. 

"For  a  long  time,"  said  Porter,  "I've  had  a  little  hobby." 

"You  have,  have  you?" 

"I  find  great  interest  in  it." 

"You  do?" 

"I  don't  know  if  it  would  interest  you  to  hear  about  it." 

"Enormously,"  said  Lenny,  stifling  a  yawn. 

Then  Porter  told  him  how  he  had  interested  himself  in 
some  work  at  the  East  End  of  London.  It  was  an  organiza- 
tion set  on  foot  by  various  kind  people  to  provide  enter- 
tainment and  amusement  for  those  who  would  otherwise 
never  have  obtained  either.  The  organization  had  estab- 
lished itself  in  a  horribly  poor  parish,  obtained  the  use  of 
a  large  hall,  and  with  the  assistance  of  local  and  visiting 
clergy  had  supplied  a  happy  evening  once  a  week  for  all 

272 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

the  poor  souls  who  cared  to  avail  themselves  of  this  brief 
respite  from  the  pains  and  cares  of  their  normal  lives. 

"It  humanizes  them,"  said  Porter.  "No  question  of 
that.  They  love  it.  But  it  humanizes  me  too.  It  has 
opened  my  eyes — it  has  given  me  food  for  thought.  It 
lifts  one  out  of  oneself.  Of  course  that's  a  selfish  way  to 
look  at  it." 

"I  don't  see  that,"  said  Lenny.  "You  are  working  for 
others;  it's  only  proper  that  you  should  have  some  reward." 

"Well,  I  take  my  reward,"  said  Porter  sententiously. 
"And  I  consider  it  a  big  reward." 

Then  he  paused,  and  flicked  away  some  cigarette  ash  with 
a  finical  gesture. 

"Would  you  care  to  come  down  with  me  some  Saturday 
evening?" 

"I  should,"  said  Lenny,  jumping  at  the  idea. 

"If  you're  in  search  of  novelty,  you  will  find  it." 

"I  dm  in  search  of  it,"  said  Lenny  eagerly.  "Delighted 
to  come  with  you." 

"Next  Saturday?" 

"Delighted." 

"We  might  dine  here  quietly — say  seven  o'clock,  and 
go  on  together.  I  always  go  by  the  District  Railway  to 
Whitechapel  and  then " 

"I'll  drive  you  in  my  motor-car." 

"Oh,  thank  you.     That  will  be  very  convenient." 

"Well,  it's  a  convenience  to  have  a  car.  At  any  rate 
at  this  time  of  year.  I  feel  it  costs  a  lot  of  money,  but  I 
do  feel  it's  a  great  convenience,  as  well  as  a  luxury." 

"Quite,"  said  Porter. 


XXVIII 

LFNNY  delighted  in  his  East  End  visits.  Everything 
was  so  strange,  so  fresh,  so  extraordinarily  simple. 
He  enjoyed  his  second  visit  better  than  his  first, 
and  his  third  better  than  his  second.  Soon  he  had  become 
so  fond  of  the  Happy  Evening  Association  that  he  counted 
the  days,  and  thought  they  moved  slowly,  till  Saturday 
came  round  again. 

On  one  side  of  the  big  hall  there  was  a  raised  stage,  and 
a  piano;  on  the  other,  a  gallery  with  an  organ;  tables 
and  benches  were  arranged  along  the  walls,  and  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  there  were  movable  arrangements  for 
games,  such  as  bagatelle  boards,  parlour  skittles,  and  so 
on;  and  beneath  the  flaring  gas-jets,  in  an  atmosphere 
that  grew  warmer  and  stuffier  every  half  hour,  you  might 
expect  to  see  assembled  any  number  of  people  from  eighty 
to  two  hundred.  They  were  old  and  young,  of  both  sexes. 
Workmen  of  all  the  lesser  trades,  a  great  many  girls  from 
neighbouring  jam  or  soap  factories,  young  men  belonging 
to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and  lads  and  boys  who  wore  the  belt 
and  cap  uniform  of  some  sort  of  church  corps,  formed  the 
elite  of  the  weekly  gathering.  Beyond  these  there  was  a 
small  but  noisy  contingent  of  respectable  costermongers, 
with  a  few  portresses  or  market  carriers;  the  rest  consisted 
of  vaguely  indefinite  toilers,  women  who  sank  with  a  sigh 
upon  the  nearest  bench,  men  who  leaned  against  the  walls, 
and  often  seemed  too  tired  to  do  anything  else. 

Members  of  the  Committee  mingled  freely  with  the 
274 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

guests,  quietly  and  unobtrusively  keeping  order;  and  vis- 
itors like  Lenny  hung  about  and  made  themselves  generally 
agreeable. 

Lenny,  introduced  to  various  members  of  the  Committee, 
found  them  all  to  be  the  kindest  and  pleasantest  people. 
There  were  charming  well-bred  women,  who  brought 
friends,  took  a  peep  at  things,  and  then  went  away;  other 
women  who  stayed  longer  were  of  the  bustling  energetic 
sort,  accustomed  to  what  they  were  doing,  and  doing  it  in 
the  most  businesslike  manner;  and  there  was  always  a  full 
supply  of  clergymen.  These  were  of  all  denominations, 
for  the  Association  was  non-sectarian,  the  religious  element 
being  studiously  kept  in  the  background.  Lenny  at 
once  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  jovial  Catholic  priest  and 
a  Wesleyan  minister,  and  to  his  surprise  and  pleasure,  he 
was  claimed  as  an  old  friend  by  one  of  the  Anglican  par- 
sons. This  was  a  Mr.  Trevenna  Dale,  who  said  that  he 
had  once  delivered  a  lecture  in  his,  Lenny's,  drawing-room 
at  Westchurch.  Lenny  did  not  in  the  least  remember  him. 
but  he  was  delighted  to  meet  him  again. 

The  entertainment  opened  with  a  little  address  from  one 
of  the  parsons.  But  Lenny  and  Porter  did  not  arrive  in 
time  to  hear  the  address.  Then  came  games,  talk,  and 
whenever  it  could  be  arranged,  songs,  dances  and  recita- 
tions. Mr.  Porter  recited — atrociously, — several  of  the 
clergymen  recited  almost  as  badly,  and  one  of  the  costers 
danced  a  most  admirable  breakdown.  One  evening  Lenny 
found  the  benches  all  set  out  in  lines  before  the  stage,  and 
a  member  of  the  Committee  made  the  gratifying  announce- 
ment that  two  music  hall  artists  had  very  kindly  volun- 
teered to  give  an  example  of  their  art. 

These  performers,  a  man  and  a  woman,  were  obviously 
of  the  most  humble  rank  in  their  profession,  but  they 
entirely    satisfied    the    audience.      The    humour    of    their 

275 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

songs  was  very  broad;  but  the  jam  girls  laughed  vocif- 
erously, the  Christian  young  men  stamped  their  feet,  and 
the  church  boys  were  howling,  suffocating  at  the  jokes. 
Lenny,  looking  round,  saw  that  the  Committee  ladies 
were  unruffled,  that  the  parsons  did  not  mind;  they  were 
beaming  tolerantly;  and  the  Catholic  priest  covered  his 
face  with  a  newspaper,  pantomiming  shocked  modesty,  and 
laughed  as  loudly  as  anybody  there.  It  was  a  contagion 
of  mirth.  Soon  Lenny  gave  himself  to  the  cheap  fun,  and 
laughed  till  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

During  intervals,  when  the  music  hall  artists  were  not 
making  one's  sides  ache,  Lenny  had  snatches  of  serious  dis- 
cussion. One  of  the  Association  organizers  surprised  him 
with  a  few  startling  facts.  And  a  fat  middle-aged  clergy- 
man talked  both  philosophically  and  instructively. 

"Look  at  the  faces,  Mr.  Calcraft.  They  all  have  the 
same  expression — trustfulness.  If  people  will  only  under- 
stand them.  Treat  them  the  right  way,  and  you  can  do 
anything  with  them." 

"Yes,  they  seem  awfully  jolly.  I've  spoken  to  several, 
and  I  want  to  speak  to  a  lot  more  of  them." 

"Your  friend,  Mr.  Porter,  understands  them.  He  has 
been  of  the  greatest  assistance  to  us  here." 

Then  there  was  another  song;  and  after  the  tumultuous 
applause  had  ceased,  the  fat  parson  and  Lenny  resumed 
their  chat. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Calcraft,  see  for  yourself.  This  is  the  raw 
material — how  good,  how  fine  it  is  really;  if  it  could  be 
moulded,  and  directed  into  noble  growth,  instead  of  being 
warped  and  crushed  and  trampled  under  foot!  Think 
of  the  wretchedness  of  their  lives — and  now  hear  them 
laugh.  You  don't  hear  such  laughter  west  of  Aldgate. 
You  never  saw  an  evening  party  in  Mayfair  to  which  people 
came  with  such  a  solid  intention  of  amusing  themselves." 

27G 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"No,  they  do  seem  awfully  jolly." 

"Who  was  ft,  Mr.  Calcraft,  who  said  that  man  is  prop- 
erly a  laughing  animal?" 

"I  forget  for  the  moment,"  said  Lenny. 

"It's  true.  It's  wonderfully  true.  Laughter  is  the 
great  medicine." 

Certainly  it  was  a  medicine  that  benefited  Lenny.  He 
felt  much  the  better  for  it.  These  happy  evenings  became 
the  main  interest  of  his  life.  It  seemed  to  him — without 
groping  to  the  base  of  the  thought — that  the  whole 
organization,  the  good  priests,  the  kind  ladies,  the  nice 
serious  young  men  were  working  for  his  benefit — to 
provide  him,  Lenny,  with  happy  evenings.  He  gave  a 
few  sovereigns  from  time  to  time,  and  received  effusive 
thanks. 

And  the  freshness  lasted.  Always  something  new — 
a  confidence  of  a  coster — a  religious  confession  of  a  tardy 
convert — secrets  poured  into  his  ear.  Once  a  girl  talked 
to  him  of  her  love  affairs.  This  was  at  the  amusing  magic 
lantern  show,  when  for  a  time  the  slides  would  not  work 
properly,  and  the  lecturer,  losing  his  temper,  was  mildly 
chi-iked  by  some  of  the  audience.  The  girl,  a  thin  pasty- 
faced  little  thing  from  the  soap  works,  sat  close  to  Lenny, 
her  head  scarcely  reaching  above  his  elbow. 

"I'm  only  seventeen,"  she  declared  artlessly.  "I  ain't  in 
an  'urry.  There's  two  after  me.  I  can  pick  me  choosin'; 
and  they  ain't  great  shakes,  either  of  them — too  much 
wrapped  up  in  theirselves." 

It  made  Lenny  laugh.  These  girls  were  artless,  differ- 
ent from  any  feminine  types  he  had  yet  studied. 

"'Ullo!"  said  his  neighbour,  "the  fur  beginnin'  to  fly. 
Pity  they  don't  turn  on  the  lights." 

Then  the  magic  lantern  show  was  interrupted  by  two 
young  ladies  right  at  the  back,  who  had  disagreed.    A  few 

277 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

shrill  words,  and  a  distressing  sound.  One  of  them  had 
slapped  the  other's  face. 

They  were  hastily  separated,  and  one  heard  members  of 
the  Committee  talking — little  scraps  of  talk,  to  which  all 
listened. 

"Oh,  Kate!     How  very  unkind  to  strike  a  friend!" 

"No  friend  of  mine." 

"No,  nor  never  wanted  to  be.  Why  don't  she 
be'ave?" 

"Kate!  Kate!  This  is  not  nice  of  you."  Lenny  recog- 
nized the  voice  of  one  of  the  clergymen — "You  disappoint 
me  sadly." 

Curiosity  took  Lenny  round  to  observe  as  well  as  to 
listen. 

"All  right,  my  girl."  The  assaulted  one  was  loud  now. 
"This  don't  end  'ere.  When  I  tell  Alfred  'ow  you've 
served  me,  I  bet  my  boots  he'll  pay  you." 

Then  the  clergyman  spoke  again. 

"Nellie,  Nellie,  you  fill  me  with  regret.  What  an  ugly 
threat!  Are  you  so  cruel  and  vindictive  that  you  would 
spread  the  quarrel  ?  She  has  not  really  hurt  you.  It's  only 
the  insult  you  feel.     Come,  forgive." 

Other  members  of  the  Committee  clustered  round,  and 
chimed  in  on  the  same  note. 

"Not  kind.  .  .  .  Not  Christian.  .  .  .  Shake  hands. 
.     .     .     Kate,  you  must  first  apologize." 

And  now  Kate,  the  aggressor,  ascended  to  great  heights. 
"There!  Tit  for  tat.  Give  it  back— I'll  take  it."  In  a 
glow  of  enthusiasm,  she  was  thrusting  forward  her  plump 
face,  offering  it  for  a  blow. 

"No,  no,"  said  the  clergyman,  "certainly  not.  Shake 
hands  at  once.     You  are  disturbing  everyone." 

And  indeed,  cries  were  coming  from  all  parts  of  the  au- 
dience.    "Stow  it,  you  two.     .     .     .     Cheese  it!     .     .     . 

278 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

d'ye  hear?  .  .  .  Smack  'em  both,  guv'nor,  till  they  let 
up." 

Then  the  performance  went  on  again.  The  girls  bore 
no  malice;  they  were  artless,  they  thought  little  of  smacks 
— as  Lenny  soon  had  an  opportunity  of  learning. 

There  had  been  talk  of  a  special  supper,  or  high  tea,  with 
cold  meat,  cakes,  oranges,  and  so  forth.  Lenny  jumped 
at  the  idea,  subscribed  liberally,  and  looked  forward  with 
eager  anticipation  to  the  supper  night. 

On  this  occasion  the  hall  was  gay  with  cotton  flags;  fes- 
toons of  coloured  paper  hung  from  cross  beams;  paraffin 
lamps  blazed  upon  the  ranged  tables.  And  the  coarse  food 
looked  dainty  and  appetizing  to  all  the  hungry  guests.  How 
they  ate!  Lenny  and  the  Committee  were  walking  up 
and  down  behind  the  tables,  carrying  cups,  handling  plates, 
cracking  little  jokes — in  a  word,  playing  the  part  of  host 
to  the  best  of  their  capacity. 

After  supper,  when  the  tables  had  been  removed,  there 
were  romping  games;  and  Lenny,  consenting  to  be  blind- 
folded, found  himself  in  the  position  of  Olivia  at  Farmer 
Flamborough's,  when  the  town  visitors  spoiled  sport  and 
put  her  to  shame. 

"Some  one  be'ind  you,  sir.  .  .  ,  That's  me.  .  .  . 
'Ere  I  am,  sir.  .  .  ."  Voices  of  boys,  and  of  girls  too, 
uttered  the  words;  and  resounding  smacks  followed.  "All 
in  fun,  sir.  .  .  .  No  'arm.  .  .  .  'Ere  I  am  again, 
sir."  There  was  no  interruption  by  unsympathetic  visitors 
to  extricate  Lenny  from  his  predicament.  The  game  played 
itself  out.  At  last  he  pulled  off  the  bandage,  with  a  young 
woman  fairly  held. 

His  collar  was  limp,  he  was  hot  and  tired,  but  jovially 
elated. 

He  felt  the  delightful  conviction  that  he  had  become  pop- 
ular,    After  the  supper,  when  his  name  was  mentioned  as 

279 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

a  generous  subscriber,  there  came  a  burst  of  thunderous 
applause.  Not  for  the  money,  but  for  his  genial  company, 
they  liked  him.  Impossible  not  to  feel  that  he  was  welcome 
down  here.  Faces  lit  up  on  his  appearance.  When  speak- 
ing of  future  events,  his  humble  friends  said,  "You  will 
come,  won't  you,  sir?  You  will  be  here  too,  sir.  We  rely 
on  you,  sir." 

Three  or  four  boys  especially  made  a  friend  of  him,  told 
him  their  troubles,  seemed  to  invite  his  advice;  and  he 
talked  to  them  earnestly,  pointing  out  pitfalls  in  the  path 
of  youth,  removing  little  doubts,  smoothing  unmovable  dif- 
ficulties. 

"No,"  he  used  to  say,  "I  don't  know  what  is  going  to 
win  the  Grand  National,  and  I  shouldn't  tell  you  if  I  did." 
And  he  laughed  and  nodded  his  head.  "The  only  tip  I'll 
give  you  is  this,  and  it's  the  best  tip  you'll  ever  get — Don't 
bet — never  make  another  bet  as  long  as  you  live." 

"Why  not,  sir?" 

"I'll  tell  you.  Because  it's  a  fool's  game,  a  mug's  game, 
an  utterly  rotten  game.  And  I  ought  to  know,  because  I've 
done  it  myself." 

Then  he  and  the  boys  would  laugh  together. 

"Suppose  you  win,  the  money  will  do  you  no  good." 
And  he  went  on  more  seriously  than  before.  "I'll  tell 
you  the  only  money  that's  worth  having — the  money  that 
you  honestly  earn.  It's  the  only  money  that  ever  does  one 
real  good.  Say  you  pick  up  a  tanner  here  and  there — I 
mean  extra,  by  bets,  or  cadging,  or  tricks.  What  do  you 
do  with  it?  I  know.  You  just  trot  off  to  the  nearest 
public  house  with  it.  And  there's  another  fool's  game 
for  you.  Don't  drink."  And  he  turned  to  one  of  the  boys. 
"This  is  to  your  address,  Dick,  old  chap.  We  all  know 
your  little  weakness,  and  we  mean  to  cure  you  of  it.  And 
you  mean  to  cure  yourself.     You  have  told  me  so.     Well, 

280 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

stick  to  that.  And  you  other  chaps  can  help  him — by  ex- 
ample, and  by  grabbing  his  coat  tails,  and  pulling  him  away, 
if  you  see  him  going  down  the  wrong  turning." 

A  strange  clergyman  overheard  him  once  delivering  some 
such  homily. 

"Mr.  Calcraft,"  said  the  stranger,  "may  I  shake  hands 
with  you?  It  did  my  heart  good  to  hear  you  just  now. 
'You  have  the  exact  knack  of  speaking  to  them.  You  go 
straight  at  them.     You  did  them  good." 

And  the  boys  themselves  said  so,  with  pride  and  affection. 

"I  done  what  you  told  me,  sir.  I  never  been  near  the 
pub  sence  last  week.  Nothin'  'as  parst  my  lips  but  non- 
alco'olic  bevridges — and  I  believe  the  wust  is  over.  I've 
conquered  meself — thanks  to  you,  sir." 

It  was  one  of  these  especially  friendly  boys  who  spoke 
to  him  about  their  favourite  singer.  A  young  lady  visitor 
had  just  warbled  somewhat  feebly,  and  the  boy  con- 
demned her  attempt. 

"Don't  think  much  of  it,  sir." 

"Well,  Tom,"  said  Lenny,  in  a  confidential  whisper, 
"I'm  inclined  to  share  your  opinion." 

"Ever  hear  Mrs.  Dryden  sing,  sir?" 

"What  Mrs.  Dryden?" 

"A  very  nice  lady  as  used  to  sing  here  pretty  reg'lar. 
Oh,  it's  prime,  is  Mrs.  Dryden's  singing." 

"Is  she — er — young?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir.    Not  what  you'd  call  young,  but  very  nice." 

Lenny  asked  more  questions,  and  another  of  the  boys 
presently  told  him  that  this  Mrs.  Dryden,  whoever  she  was, 
would  soon  come  and  sing  to  them  again. 

"I  'eard  say  she  was  a-comin'  next  Saturday  but  Rev'- 
ren'  Mr.  Hardie,  he  wasn't  sure  about  it." 

On  the  following  Saturday  Lenny  hurried  Mr.  Porter 
through  his  dinner,  and  they  arrived  quite  early.     It  was 

281 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

a  crowded  night,  and  one  had  to  wait  a  long  time  before 
the  entertainment  began.  Lenny  did  not  move  about  the 
hall  to-night.  He  sat  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  benches, 
quietly  waiting.  He  was  far  from  the  outer  door;  and  the 
performing  visitors,  as  they  came  in,  were  received  by  the 
Committee  and  conducted  to  a  little  room,  from  which 
they  emerged  upon  the  platform. 

At  last!  Mrs.  Dryden's  turn  now.  At  the  announce- 
ment there  is  terrific  drumming  of  feet,  loud  whistling,  and 
violent  hand-clapping. 

"Silence,  please!     Hush.     Silence!" 

A  tall  woman  in  a  black  dress,  with  a  pale  face  and  a 
fringe  of  dark  hair  under  an  Alma  Reed  hat — the  woman 
who  had  loved  him.  His  own  Alma,  no  one  else — and  now 
a  stranger,  another  man's  wife. 

She  began  to  sing;  and  he  was  suffused  with  a  pleasure 
akin  to  pain.  Her  voice  affected  him  more  than  he  would 
have  believed  possible;  it  poured  out  floods  of  gentle  melan- 
choly; it  evoked  a  hundred  tender  memories;  it  swept  him 
back  into  the  past,  whether  he  wished  to  go  there  or  not. 

She  sang  again;  and  his  sensation  became  entirely  pleas- 
urable. What  an  astounding  episode!  Exciting,  stimulat- 
ing. Just  the  sort  of  thing  that  writers  make  a  lot  of  in 
their  books  and  plays — a  chance  meeting,  after  long  years, 
between  a  man  and  a  woman  who  once  were  lovers.  She 
was  older — that  went  without  saying;  but  to  his  eyes  she 
was  almost  as  charming  and  graceful  as  ever.  Certainly 
she  sang  just  as  well.  She  was  his  own  lost  Alma.  Yet 
here  was  he  sitting  near  her,  and  there  was  she  standing 
close  in  front  of  him;  and  she  did  not  know  that  he  was 
anywhere  within  a  thousand  miles  of  her.  No  instinct  had 
warned  her  of  his  proximity. 

She  sang  three  times.  Then  enraptured  boys  and  girls 
broke  from  the  ranks  of  benches,  wildly  applauding,  turn- 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

bling  over  one  another,  as  they  rushed  to  the  door  at  the 
side  of  the  platform  through  which  she  must  pass  on  her 
way  out  of  the  hall.  The  boys  got  all  round  her,  when  she 
came  down  the  steps  from  the  little  side  room. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am.  .  .  .  Sing  to  us  agin,  ma'am. 
,  .  .  Do  sing  agin.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was  just  lovely,  ma'am." 

Members  of  the  Committee  were  also  thanking  her;  and 
when  Lenny  joined  the  group,  one  of  them  took  him  by  the 
arm,  and  made  a  friendly  introduction. 

"Mrs.  Dryden,  let  me  introduce  a  new  and  valuable 
recruit — Mr.  Calcraft,  who  has  been  so  kind  and  helpful 
to  us." 

With  difficulty  he  persuaded  her  to  let  him  drive  her 
home  in  his  motor-car.  It  was  raining;  and  a  rather 
officious  clergyman  assisted  him  in  forcing  her  to  accept 
this  kindness.  Mr.  Porter  must  find  his  way  back  by  the 
underground  railway — Lenny  left  no  messages  for  him. 

The  car  moved  slowly  through  the  crowded  streets, 
which  were  now  at  their  busiest.  The  Saturday  night  mar- 
ket of  the  East  End  was  in  full  swing.  Lamplight  filled 
the  car,  and  Lenny  watched  the  delicate  profile  beneath  the 
big  hat.  For  a  little  while  both  remained  silent;  but  he 
felt  an  extraordinary  contentment.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
she  had  scarcely  changed  at  all;  the  years  had  not  touched 
her;  she  was  just  as  she  used  to  be  when  he  sat  by  hef 
side  like  this  ages  ago. 

But  in  those  days  she  did  not  speak  hardly  and  coldly, 
like  this. 

"Well,  Lenny,  what  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?" 

"I  am  thinking  of  the  amazing  chance  that  has  brought 
us  together — Whitechapel,  of  all  places  in  the  world." 

"I  suppose  we  had  to  meet  somewhere,  and  some  time — 
and  it's  just  as  well  to  get  it  over." 
19  283 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Dear  Alma,  do  you  mind  it?  I  have  so  often  won- 
dered about  you — longed  for  some  opportunity  to  get  news 
of  you." 

"Really?" 

"Yes,  really  and  truly.  And  now,  tell  me  one  thing. 
Are  you  happy  in  your  new  life?" 

"Perfectly  happy,  thank  you." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad." 

"Are  you?" 

"Of  course  I  am — overjoyed."  And  then  Lenny  sighed. 
"I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  for  myself.  ...  By  the 
way,  you  haven't  told  me  where  you  and — er — Gerald 
live." 

"Knavesmere  Gardens.  That's  just  off  the  Bayswater 
Road.  But  please  put  me  down  anywhere  convenient  to 
you,  and  I'll  get  a  cab." 

"Alma!  Of  course  I  shall  drive  you  to  the  door — the 
very  door." 

Presently  he  made  inquiries  about  Gerald,  and  Alma  re- 
ported that  her  husband  was  both  healthy  and  prosperous. 

"Capital,"  said  Lenny.  "I  should  like  to  see  Gerald 
again.  I  hope  you  will  let  me  do  so.  I  should  enjoy  hav- 
ing a  talk  over  old  times." 

"Would  you?     That  rather  surprises  me." 

Then  after  a  pause  Lenny  asked  another  question. 

"Have  you  told  him  about  me?" 

"Yes— a  little." 

"Not   all?" 

"No." 

"Dear  old  Alma!  I  only  ask  because — well,  one  wants 
to  know  how  one  stands.  They  say  that,  even  when  reti- 
cence would  be  wise  and  proper,  wives  never  keep  anything 
back  from   their  husbands." 

"I'm   afraid    I'm   not   that   sort   of   wife." 
284 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Ah!  Then  I  may  take  it,  Gerald  just  knows  the  main 
fact  that  you  and  I  were  regular  pals?" 

"Yes — regular  pals." 

She  would  not  thaw,  she  would  not  unbend.  Her  voice 
had  a  metallic  hardness;  and  once  when  she  laughed,  her 
laughter  sounded  unmusical.  And  worse  than  all  this,  she 
flatly  declined  Lenny's  proposal  to  visit  her  at  the  house 
in  Knavesmere  Gardens. 

"Why  not?"  he  pleaded.  "Gerald  and  I  are  old  friends. 
What  could  be  more  natural?" 

"No,"  she  said  resolutely,  staring  straight  in  front  of  her. 

"Oh,  why?  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  me — if  I  might 
see  you  sometimes." 

Then  she  turned  to  look  at  him. 

"Lenny,  I  think  you  are  the  most  incomprehensible  per- 
son that  ever  lived." 

"Why?" 

"Only  you  would  have  asked  the  questions  you  have 
asked.  No  one  but  you  would  want  to  come  and  see  me — 
I  mean,  no  one  but  you  could  suppose  that  I  should  wish 
for  such  a  guest." 

"Well,  I  won't  press  it,  if  it  would  be  painful  to  you." 

"Painful!"  And  her  voice  deepened.  "No — but  it 
would  be  simply  wearisome." 

He  took  her  to  her  door,  and  watched  her  while  she  went 
up  a  flight  of  white  steps  out  of  the  little  front  garden.  It 
appeared  to  be  a  funny  old-fashioned  box  of  a  house;  but 
it  was  all  dark  now — no  light  showing  from  any  of  the 
windows.  She  let  herself  in  with  a  latch-key,  and  she  never 
looked  round  or  waved  her  hand. 

Except  for  this  omission,  it  seemed  quite  like  the  old 
days — when,  after  an  evening  at  the  theatre,  he  used  to 
drive  her  home  to  the  ugly  building  that  contained  Frances 
Shipham's  flat. 

285 


XXIX 

A    FEW  days  passed,  and  then  to  his  surprise  Lenny 
received   a  very  nice   letter  from  Gerald   Dryden. 
"My  dear  Calcraft,  Alma  has  told  me  of  how  she 
met  you  slumming.     Do  come  to  dinner  to-morrow,  eight 
o'clock.     Not  a  party — only  ourselves." 

Lenny  was  delighted.  Alma  had  managed  this  after 
all.  She  had  not  truly  thought  his  presence  would  bring 
weariness  with  it,  but  she  had  dreaded  opposition  or  re- 
luctance on  the  part  of  Gerald.  It  had  taken  her  a  dny 
or  two  to  overcome  some  little  difficulties,  and  now  she 
had  succeeded.  This  meant,  of  course,  that  she  did  want 
to  see  him  again.     Splendid!     A  gleam  of  light. 

He  dressed  himself  with  scrupulous  care — white  waist- 
coat, newest  example  of  shirt,  latest  form  of  tie,  and  his 
very  choicest  studs.  Although  he  knew  that  buttonholes 
were  not  strictly  speaking  in  fashion,  he  provided  himself 
with  some  lilies-of-the-valley  and  a  pink  rose  for  the  silk 
lapel  of  his  coat.     He  wanted  to  look  his  very  best  to-night. 

Dryden  received  him  kindly,  if  not  cordially;  but  there 
was  a  certain  irksomeness  and  constraint  that  was  difficult 
to  get  over.  Alma  seemed  very  shy.  Lenny  purposely 
left  her  alone,  addressing  himself  to  Gerald,  and  saying 
how  much  he  admired  their  charming  little  home.  The 
house  was,  in  fact,  very  pretty;  small  and  compact — really 
like  a  country  house  in  London,  with  all  kinds  of  graceful 
prettinesses  that  were  undoubtedly  due  to  Alma's  good 
taste. 

286 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

At  dinner  they  talked  of  Westchurch.  Gerald  and  his 
wife  had  spent  Christmas  in  the  family  circle  of  Haven 
Lodge;  and  a  slight  relaxation  of  restraint  was  caused 
by  a  fortunate  allusion  to  old  Mr.  Reed's  favourite  pastime. 

"Does  your  father  still  play  golf?" 

"He  never  played  golf,"  said  Alma,  with  the  flicker  of 
a  smile. 

"Oh,  surely.     He " 

"He  used  to  try  to  play,  and  he  still  tries." 

Then  they  all  laughed,  and  in  Alma's  ripple  of  mirth 
Lenny  heard  the  old  music;  free  now  from  that  metallic 
sharpness. 

Throughout  the  meal  he  noticed  that  Gerald  called  him 
"Calcraft"  instead  of  "Lenny,"  and  that  Alma  did  not  use 
any  name  at  all. 

Gerald  had  not  improved  externally,  and  inwardly  he 
seemed  to  have  been  hardened  rather  than  softened  by  his 
success.  The  hair  had  receded  from  his  forehead;  his  jaw 
had  become,  if  possible,  squarer  and  more  resolute  than 
ever.  There  was  a  broadness,  a  commonness,  a  total  lack 
of  distinction  about  his  whole  face.  His  clothes  were  badly 
made,  his  tie  was  all  wrong;  in  fact  he  was  dressed  abomi- 
nably, and  he  seemed  to  be  aware  of  this,  and  almost  vain- 
gloriously  to  boast  of  the  fact. 

Once  he  looked  across  the  table  grinning,  and  drew 
attention  to  Lenny's  magnificence. 

"I  see  you  are  as  well  turned  out  as  ever,  Calcraft. 
Still  the  buck  and  dandy.  Do  you  remember  how  you 
used  to  go  on  about  my  clothes?  But  I  never  picked  up 
the  doggy  air.  Alma  rags  me  about  my  shabbiness.  But 
it's  no  use;  I'm  past  reforming." 

After  dinner,  when  Alma  left  them,  Gerald  kept  the 
guest  an  unconscionable  time  in  the  dining-room,  and  this 
was  the  most  difficult  and  crucial  period  of  the  evening. 

287 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Gerald  smoked  a  big  and  rather  rank  cigar,  and  Lenny 
got  through  at  least  six  cigarettes  before  he  was  permitted 
to  go  into  the  drawing-room. 

"I  say,M  said  the  host  abruptly,  after  a  silence,  "I'm 
glad  to  see  you.  But  there's  something  that  I  want  to 
have  out  with  you.  Merely  a  trifle,  but  it's  there  at  the 
back  of  my  mind,  and  I  want  to  get  rid  of  it." 

"What  is  it,  Gerald?" 

"Well,  when  I  used  to  gas  you  about  Alma — you  re- 
member— my  dream  and  all  that, — why  didn't  you  tell  me 
that  you  were  seeing  Alma  up  here?" 

Lenny  shrugged  his  shoulders  deprecatingly,  and  puffed 
at  his  cigarette  before  answering. 

"She  didn't  wTish  it,  Gerald.  She  had  broken  her  con- 
nection with  Westchurch,  and  she  was  anxious  not  to  re- 
new the  links — at  that  time,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  I  see.    That's  what  I  gathered  from  her." 

"Yes.  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  of  course.  It  was  very 
difficult  not  to  tell  you,  but  I  didn't  feel  myself  a  free 
agent  in  the  matter." 

"Well,  that's  all  right,"  said  Gerald,  with  a  change  of 
tone.     "And  I'm  glad  I  spoke  of  it." 

"I  think,". said  Lenny,  "that  I  can  read  your  thought 
exactly.  You  felt  that  as  you  had  confided  in  me  with 
such  completeness,  I  ought  not  to  have  held  back  any  in- 
formation which  I  possessed,  and  which  might  be  useful 
to  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Gerald,  "that  was  exactly  my  thought.  I 
couldn't  understand  it.  There  seemed  something  myste- 
rious— almost  underhand — about  it." 

"Just  so,"  said  Lenny.  "But  then,  confidence  is  confi- 
dence. I  was  to  a  certain  extent  in  your  wife's  confidence 
at  that  time,  and  I  was  placed  in  somewhat  of  a  dilemma. 
But  I  have  a  clear  recollection  of  how  I  went  as  far  as  I 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

felt  justified  in  going,  when  you  told  me  of  your  affection, 
your  hopes,  and  so  on." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Gerald  carelessly.  "That's  all  right. 
I  merely  wanted  to  have  it  out  with  you.  I'm  quite  satis- 
fied, and  now  we're  all  square." 

After  this  there  was  a  perceptible  increase  of  cordiality 
on  the  side  of  the  host.  He  talked  more  easily,  became 
vaguely,  if  not  explicitly  confidential,  and  once  or  twice 
called  the  guest  "Lenny." 

"Glad  you  like  the  house,  Lenny.  It  was  Alma's  choice. 
I've  done  the  best  I  can  for  her.  God  bless  her!  The  best 
wife  a  man  ever  had,  Lenny." 

Then,  immediately  following  on  this  praise  of  the  wife, 
he  spoke  again  of  the  house. 

"Of  course,  it's  very  small.  I  hoped,  we  both  hoped, 
that  it  would  prove  too  small  for  us  before  this;  but  that 
hasn't  happened." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  guest  sympathetically.  "But 
it  may  happen  later  on.     You  are  both  so  young." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Gerald,  with  brutal  can- 
dour. "Alma  is  thirty-five,  getting  on  for  thirty-six,  and 
I've  passed  the  fledgeling  stage." 

Lenny  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  gently  waved  his  cig- 
arette, but  could  not  find  any  appropriate  words. 

"When  she  and  I  fixed  up  our  contract,"  Gerald  con- 
tinued, "I  was  obliged  to  pledge  myself  that  our 
young  people  should  be  brought  up  as  Roman  Catholics. 
It  rather  stuck  in  my  throat,  but  I  had  to  give  way. 
These  Roman  Catholics  won't  budge  nowadays."  And 
he  gave  a  laugh  that  was  a  snort  of  contempt.  "Well,  I 
need  not  have  worried.  The  restriction  hasn't  troubled 
me." 

Yes,  thought  Lenny,  this  was  where  the  shoe  pinched. 
No  children.     He  tried  to  resist  any  unworthy  satisfaction, 

289 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

but  failed.     The  fact  that  there  were  no  offspring  of  the 
marriage  gave  him  pleasure. 

"But  one  can't  have  everything  in  this  world,"  said 
Gerald,  as  though  changing  the  subject.  "By  the  way, 
Lenny,  did  you  know  what  an  extraordinarily  religious 
woman  she  was?" 

"Do  you  mean  was,  or  is,  Gerald?" 

"Is— now." 

"Oh,  of  course  I  knew  that  she  was,  in  the  old  time 
at  Westchurch;  but  I  fancied  that  with  her  intellectual 
growth  she  had  got  beyond  orthodoxy,  and  rather  shaken 
off  the  cut-and-dried  forms  of  religion." 

"No,  or  she  has  come  back  to  them.  Of  course  I  leave 
her  absolutely  free.  I  never  interfere  with  her.  But  if 
I'm  anything,  I'm  a  Protestant.  I  like  protesting,  and 
the  worst  of  that  Roman  Catholic  thraldom  is  that  it  does 
make  people  so  confoundedly  superstitious.  Poor  Alma  is 
stuffed  up  with  superstition — will  swallow  anything  the 
priests  tell  her." 

"Really?  You  greatly  surprise  me,  Gerald,  by  all  this. 
But  perhaps  it  is  not  unnatural." 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  But  it's  disconcerting — sometimes. 
I'm  too  practical,  of  course.  But  when  it  comes  to  mir- 
acles  "     Dryden  paused;  and  then  going  on  again,  he 

spoke  so  vaguely  that  Lenny  failed  to  catch  his  drift. 

What  did  he  mean?  Lenny  could  not  understand.  But 
he  seemed  to  hint  that  Alma  craved  for  some  sort  of  mir- 
acle in  her  own  life.  Then  all  at  once  Lenny  guessed, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  that  Alma  had  been  on  a  pilgrimage  to 
Lourdes,  or  that  she  wanted  to  go  there,  with  a  view  to 
achieving  something  miraculous. 

No  doubt  that  was  it.  There  it  was  again.  The  pinch 
of  the  shoe.  The  mutual  discomfort  that  infallibly  arises 
irt  childless  marriages. 

290 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

At  last,  after  what  seemed  at  least  two  hours,  the  host 
allowed  the  guest  to  rejoin  his  hostess.  Alma  was  reading 
by  the  drawing-room  fire,  and  she  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Gerald  jovially.  "Now  tip  us  a 
stave,  old  lady." 

Alma  looked  at  the  guest  interrogatively. 

"Yes,  do  please  sing,"  said  Lenny.     "I  should  love  it." 

Alma  meekly  took  her  place  at  the  piano,  and  began  to 
sing;  and  Lenny  sat  listening,  with  bowed  head  and  folded 
hands.  Her  voice  began  to  vibrate  inside  him;  he  was 
full  of  indefinite  sadness. 

"Do  sing  something  else,"  he  said,  when  the  first  song 
was  finished. 

"Do  you  know  All  Souls*  Day?"  asked  Alma. 

"No,  but  I  should  love  to  hear  it." 

Lenny's  thoughts  were  active  until  she  came  to  the  end 
of  All  Souls'  Day.  And  the  thoughts  grew  sadder  and 
sadder.  Alma,  his  own  Alma — and  he  thought  of  all  that 
he  had  lost  in  losing  her.  Ah,  that  was  the  perfect  solace, 
if  only  it  could  have  been  continued.  No  other  woman 
would  ever  be  to  him  what  Alma  once  was.  He  tried 
to  banish  the  feeling  of  regret  by  observation  of  surround- 
ing facts.  Gerald  was  a  common  fellow — utterly  un- 
worthy of  her.  Dreadful  for  her  to  be  mated  to  this  clown. 
She  was  such  a  thoroughbred.  More  now  than  in  those 
far-off  days  at  Haven  Lodge,  she  seemed  like  a  creature 
of  another  race — a  swan  among  ducklings — the  princess  in 
captivity. 

As  at  the  East  End,  Alma  sang  three  times. 

"Do  you  know  The  Green  Trees  Whispered?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Lenny. 

"I  doubt  if  I  know  it  myself,  but  I'll  try  it  if  you  like." 

"Do,  please." 

Gerald  had  picked  up   the  evening  paper,   and   Lenny, 

291 


IN   COTTON  WOOL 

seeing  he  was  absorbed,  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  Alma's  face. 
He  was  thinking.  All  this — the  house,  the  piano,  and  the 
singer — might  have  belonged  to  him.  They  could  have 
run  to  such  a  little  house  as  this — certainly,  if  deprived  of 
the  blessing  of  children.  Then  he  would  have  been  the 
host  and  Gerald  the  visitor.  And  he  thought  of  the  room 
upstairs  that  he  would  never  see:  Alma's  room — with  the 
wardrobes  where  she  kept  her  hats.  Her  dressing-gown 
would  be  hanging  now  over  the  back  of  a  chintz-covered 
chair,  her  slippers  close  by,  and  all  about  the  unseen  room 
there  would  be  her  pretty  little  things. 

Alma  seemed  to  be  troubled  by  his  ardent  gaze.  She 
faltered,  and  then  stopped. 

"No,  I  don't  really  know  this.  Haven't  practised  it. 
I'm  sorry." 

Then  she  left  the  piano,  said  good-night,  and  moved  to- 
wards the  door. 

Lenny  hastened  to  open  it  for  her.  She  let  him  hold 
her  hand  for  an  instant,  and  then  turned  to  her  husband, 
who  had  put  down  the  newspaper,  and  was  giving  her  some 
domestic  order. 

"Alma,  don't  touch  the  upstairs  switch." 

"Very  well."  And  she  went  out  into  the  snug  little  hall 
and  up  the  stairs. 

The  evening  was  over,  and  Lenny  would  have  gone  away, 
but  he  was  not  allowed  to  do  so  yet  awhile.  Gerald  in- 
sisted on  taking  him  to  his  own  private  den  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hall,  making  him  drink  whisky  and  soda,  smoke 
more  cigarettes,  and  suffer  almost  insupportable  boredom. 
Once  Gerald  took  him  out  of  the  room,  back  into  the  hall, 
to  show  him  a  wonderful  switch-board — something  patented 
by  Gerald's  firm — an  ingenious  contrivance  by  which  one 
could  control  every  lamp  in  the  house,  and  light  them  and 
extinguish   them   just   as   one   pleased.      That   was   a    fair 

292 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

sample  of  the  whole  of  this  interview, — terribly  boring. 
Lenny  yawned  behind  Gerald's  back.  But,  however  bored 
he  might  be,  he  did  not  dare  to  hurry  off.  He  must  es- 
tablish his  footing,  because  he  wanted  to  come  again. 

For  the  most  part,  Gerald  was  recounting  his  career,  and 
the  enterprises  in  which  his  firm  had  engaged.  Tramways 
at  Buenos  Ayres — power  station  in  Mexico — mills  on  the 
Danube — idiotic  technical  twaddle. 

"Yes,  Lenny.  I'm  making  money,  but  it's  slow  work. 
I've  been  deuced  lucky — lucky  to  be  taken  on  as  a  partner 
— lucky  that  the  other  partners  were  such  old  chaps.  Tired 
men,  all  three  of  them ;  glad  to  give  me  scope.  The  business 
was  all  right,  but  going  to  sleep  when  I  came  into  it." 

Suddenly  Lenny  thought  of  Porter  and  his  trick  of  say- 
ing "quite."  After  that  it  was  easier.  Lenny  gave  Gerald 
a  "quite"  in  every  pause,  and  Gerald  appeared  to  be  thor- 
oughly satisfied. 

"But  I  shan't  go  on  for  ever.  I  shall  slack  up  directly 
I  have  made  enough.  It's  the  old  story:  I  have  only  one 
aim — Alma.  It's  all  for  Alma,  and,  please  God,  I  mean 
her  to  have  a  good  time  of  it  before  long.  She  is  such  a 
brick,  she  never  grouses.  But  it's  mighty  dull  for  her. 
I'm  obliged  to  leave  her  continually.     I  can't  help  it." 

"Quite." 

"That's  one  of  the  troubles  in  married  life,  when  you 
don't  belong  to  the  leisured  class.  If  a  man's  got  to  work, 
he  can't  be  always  trotting  his  wife  about.  Yet  if  he  doesn't 
do  it,  people  say  he  is  neglecting  her.  Alma  never  says  it, 
never  hints  it;  but  she  is  thrown  on  her  own  resources. 
She  doesn't  make  friends  readily.  She  used  to,  but  she 
doesn't  now.  Then,  being  so  much  alone,  she  slides  into 
all  this  religious  fervour  and  excitement."     .     .     . 

Really  Lenny  had  ceased  to  listen — he  was  thinking  of 
the  room  upstairs.     In  imagination  he  had  forced  his  way 

293 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

into  it  now.  He  could  see  it.  A  reading  lamp  and  small 
circle  of  bright  light.  Alma  reading  in  bed.  All  her  pretty 
hair  loose — a  narrow  white  face  in  the  midst  of  a  dark 
cloud — just  as  he  used  to  see  it.  And  soon — it  must  be 
soon;  this  couldn't  last  much  longer — the  door  of  the  room 
would  be  opened,  and  she  would  lift  her  eyes  and  say  "Is 
that  you,  Gerald  dear?" — instead  of  saying  "Is  that  you, 
Lenny  dear?" 


XXX 

LENNY  went  no  more  to  the  Happy  Evenings.     He 
had  another  interest  in  life. 

Without  delay  he  called  at  Knavesmere  Gardens 
to  thank  Alma  for  her  hospitality;  and,  hastening  to  pay 
his  social  debt,  he  invited  her  and  her  husband  to  dine 
with  him  at  a  smart  restaurant  on  the  following  Sunday. 
Gerald  seemed  pleased  to  accept  this  invitation,  and  the 
little  party  went  off  charmingly.  Then  Lenny  proposed  a 
night  at  the  play.  He  had  bought  four  stalls,  and  he  wished 
the  Drydens  to  see  this  piece — it  was  a  great  success,  and, 
as  he  understood,  very  amusing.  Would  Alma  ask  one  of 
her  women  friends  to  make  up  the  quartette?  Dinner,  of 
course,  to  be  provided  by  Lenny  before  the  dramatic  treat. 

Several  visits  were  necessary  to  complete  all  arrange- 
ments; and  in  the  end  the  party  was  a  trio  and  not  a 
quartette.  Alma  had  not  been  able  to  find  any  woman 
friend  available. 

After  this  Gerald's  business  called  him  away  to  Germany 
for  three  days;  when  he  came  back,  it  was  only  to  be 
called  away  again;  and  during  these  absences  Lenny  saw 
for  himself  the  absolute  truth  of  all  that  Gerald  had  told 
him.  Poor  Alma  had  been  left  alone  in  the  house,  with- 
out amusement  or  companionship;  at  whatever  hour  one 
called,  one  never  met  any  of  her  friends  there;  she  seemed 
to  possess  no  real  friends;  she  was  thrown  entirely  on  her 
own  resources. 

Yet  she  resolutely  declared  that  she  could  not  renew  an 
old  friendship  which  would  infallibly  relieve  the  monotony 

295 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

of  her  long  dull  days.  She  did  not  like  receiving  visitors. 
She  had  occupations ;  and  occupations  are  better  than  amuse- 
ments.    She  hardly  ever  felt  dull. 

She  said  she  was  happy — thoroughly  contented;  and  he 
admired  the  steadfast  courage  that  supported  her  while  she 
uttered  this  boast.  Poor  girl,  she  knew  that  she  had  made 
her  bed  and  must  lie  on  it.  She  would  never  abrogate 
a  woman's  natural  pride  and  own  that  it  was  not  a  bed 
of  roses.  Very  fine,  this,  essentially  fine — just  what  one 
might  expect  from  Alma. 

Nevertheless  he  had  determined  to  help  her  in  spite  of 
herself.  Their  friendship — a  certain  amount  of  it — should 
and  must  be  renewed. 

For  him  there  could  be  little  true  pleasure  in  it — no 
pleasure,  one  might  say,  that  was  free  from  pain.  But  he 
gave  himself  freely  to  the  varied  feelings  it  aroused — regret, 
remorse,  vague  yearnings,  unformulated  hopes.  And  al- 
ready he  had  gained  something.  The  whole  affair  was  in- 
teresting, absorbingly  interesting.  Of  late  when  waking 
of  a  morning — unless  it  was  Saturday  morning,  with  a 
Happy  Evening  in  view, — he  had  been  at  once  conscious 
of  a  mental  lassitude  and  emptiness;  and  his  whole  body 
seemed  to  echo  the  whisper  of  his  mind.  Another  day,  but 
why  get  up  at  all?  What's  the  use  of  a  day?  Cui  bono? 
Now,  however,  he  woke  with  a  vigorous  briskness  of 
thought.  His  body  felt  purposeful,  quite  eager  to  relin- 
quish the  warm  bed.  Each  day  brought  its  work  with  it. 
He  had  something  instead  of  nothing  to  do. 

And  soon  he  began  to  feel  that  once  more  he  was  being 
guided  by  wise  instincts.  Alma  might  make  him  sad,  but 
all  the  time  she  did  him  good.  Alma  linked  him  with  his 
vanished  youth — the  careless  sunlit  epoch  of  hope  and 
strength  and  joy.  The  sight  of  her  lips,  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  and,  above  all  else,  the  touch  of  her  fingers,  carried 

296 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

him  straight  back.     Alma  could,   and   before  long  would, 
make  him  feel  almost  young  again. 

It  was  slow,  arduous  work.  But  Lenny  had  now  found 
the  lever  that  would  move  her — not  very  much;  but  still 
it  did  move  her.  Pity — that  sweetest  and  most  gentle  of 
feminine  qualities.  By  the  constant  appeal  to  all  that  was 
compassionate  in  her  nature,  he  had  achieved  progress. 

One  afternoon — a  nasty  foggy  afternoon — he  was  left 
waiting  in  the  drawing-room  for  a  considerable  time;  and 
when  at  last  she  appeared,  she  told  him  explicitly  that  he 
must  not  continue  to  pay  her  these  visits. 

"Alma,  dear,  may  I  ask  you  one  question?  Does  Ger- 
ald object?" 

"No.  Gerald  is  much  too  busy  for  me  to  bother  him 
with  any  little  worries  of  mine." 

"Gerald,  I  honestly  believe — from  what  he  let  fall — 
would  be  only  too  glad  for  anybody  to  come  here  now  and 
then,  and  cheer  you  up." 

"You  do  not  cheer  me  up.  Besides,  you  altogether  mis- 
interpret whatever  Gerald  may  have  said.  I  can't  have 
your  car  standing  out  there  every  afternoon — people  would 
begin  to  wonder." 

"I'll  never  bring  the  car  again.  I'll  come  in  a  cab.  I'll 
walk.  I'd  walk  right  across  London  for  the  joy  of  seeing 
you." 

"Lenny,"  she  said  seriously,  "are  you  going  to  force  me 
to  tell  the  servants  that  you  are  not  to  be  admitted  ?  I  must 
do  it,  if  you  force  me.  .  .  .  Please  go  away;  and  please 
don't  come  here  again — at  least  until  my  husband  asks  you." 

She  had  not  sat  down;  she  had  not  even  shaken  hands 
with  him;  and  now  she  turned  her  back,  and  went  to  the 
window. 

Lenny  followed  her,  stood  beside  her,  stared  forlornly  at 

297 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

the  little  front  garden,  the  car,  and  the  foggy  roadway. 
And  then  chance  aided  him,  and  gave  him  a  useful  hint, 
just  as  he  was  despairing  of  ever  making  a  substantial  step 
forward. 

Outside  the  window  something  attracted  Alma's  attention 
and  diverted  the  train  of  her  thoughts.  It  was  a  flower- 
seller — a  wretched,  skinny,  ragged  woman,  who  offered 
pots  of  yellow  tulips,  and  was  being  repulsed  by  Lenny's 
chauffeur.  She  picked  up  the  weighty  basket  that  held 
her  stock  of  flower-pots — quite  a  dozen  of  them — and 
limped  past  the  garden  railings.  Seen  thus,  vaguely  in 
the  fog,  she  looked  like  some  miserable  ghost — a  piteous 
figure  from  purgatory — a  weak  sinner  doomed  to  carry  a 
monstrous  burden  through  the  dim  under-world. 

"Oh,  poor  soul!"  said  Alma;  and  her  voice  was  eloquent 
with  pity.  "I  don't  believe  she  has  sold  a  single  one.  She 
has  been  up  and  down  the  road  since  ten  this  morning. 
Oh,  I  must  send  out  and  buy  one.  Lenny,  ring  the  bell 
for  me." 

Lenny  did  not  ring  the  bell.  Hatless,  he  dashed  out  of 
the  house,  dismissed  his  car  in  passing,  ran  after  the  ragged 
woman,  and  bought  all  her  flower  pots. 

He  came  back  to  tell  Alma,  and  to  crave  her  acceptance 
of  this  handsome  supply  of  yellow  tulips. 

"You  were  quite  right,"  he  said  cheerily.  "She  hadn't 
got  rid  of  one — and  only  a  shilling  apiece,  poor  dear!  I 
gave  her  a  sovereign,  and  told  her  to  keep  the  change." 

"That  was  kind  of  you,  Lenny — really  kind."  Her  eyes 
were  moist  and  bright;  there  was  colour  in  her  pale  face; 
her  voice  had  a  full  note,  and  a  pause,  if  not  a  break,  that 
gave  him  a  faintly  delicious  thrill. 

He  sat  down  on  one  of  the  chintz-covered  chairs;  and 
while  the  flowers  were  being  delivered  and  she  was  out  of 
the  room,  he  thought.    A  sovereign  well  spent — a  good  in- 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

vestment!  This  had  been  a  turning-point,  a  crisis,  a  trifling 
event  that  might  have  tremendous  consequences.  "Lenny," 
he  said  to  himself,  "take  care.  You  are  playing  with  fire." 
Well,  if  so,  he  must  go  on  playing  with  it. 

But  it  was  not  a  comfortable  thought,  and,  for  that  rea- 
son, he  immediately  dismissed  it.  Chance  had  prompted 
him.  He  had  his  cue  now.  Pity!  If  she  was  so  sorry 
for  any  poor  beggar  in  the  street,  she  would  be  sorry  for 
him. 

When  she  returned  to  the  room,  she  didn't  send  him 
away.  He  knew  that  she  would  not  be  so  obdurate.  She 
allowed  him  to  stay  for  quite  an  hour,  and  all  through  the 
hour  he  talked  about  himself. 

He  told  her  of  his  loneliness,  his  reveries,  his  bad  health, 
and  his  melancholy.  Speaking  of  the  sadness,  he  took 
some  splendid  imaginative  flights.  He  said  the  sadness 
was  like  a  dark  sea,  rolling  through  the  years  towards  him; 
and  he  felt  like  a  man  standing  at  the  foot  of  an  unclimbable 
cliff,  while  the  cruel  waves  slowly  mounted  the  shore  to  en- 
gulf him.    No  escape  possible. 

"So  I  live  in  the  past  now,  Alma.  Can  you  wonder? 
I  have  nothing  to  look  forward  to." 

He  saturated  himself,  and  he  tried  to  saturate  her,  in 
sentimentality.  She  must  pity  him;  she  should  pity  him. 
And  in  itself  the  talk  was  so  valuable.  It  was  doing  him 
good.     It  eased  him  and  soothed  him. 

"Lenny,  what  can  I  say?  I  don't  know  why  you  should 
be  sad;  but  if  you  are  sad,  of  course  I'm  sorry  that  you 
are." 

There!  She  had  said  it.  How  could  she  help  saying 
it?  It  would  have  been  unnatural  if  she,  of  all  people 
in  the  world,  did  not  sympathize  with  him.  He  kept  the 
conversation  swinging  along,  on  the  same  topic,  and  every 
minute  he  felt  more  forcibly  that,  so  long  as  they  talked 

20  m 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

like  this,  he  would  as  it  were  have  the  whip  hand  of  her. 
The  logic  of  facts  seemed  to  be  arguing  for  him.  After  all, 
she  had  married;  and  he  had  remained  single.  This  ob- 
vious reflection,  which  would  perpetually  present  itself  to 
her  mind,  must  tend  to  influence  her,  to  placate  her,  to 
soften  her. 

It  was  fortunate  that  no  whisper  of  Helen  Fletcher  had 
ever  reached  her.  He  recognized  that,  had  Alma  known 
anything  of  that  entanglement  with  Mrs.  Fletcher,  his  task 
would  have  become  twenty  times  more  difficult. 

Not  happy,  although  she  swore  she  was.  But  he  meant 
to  make  her  confess  the  truth.  He  felt  that  until  he 
should  have  beaten  down  her  reserve  and  wrung  this  con- 
fession from  her,  he  would  never  enjoy  the  charms  of  open 
and  unembarrassed  talk.  There  were  so  many  questions 
that  he  wanted  to  ask  her.  Years  ago  there  had  been  such 
absolute  frankness  between  them,  ideas  held  in  an  intel- 
lectual partnership,  a  unique  communion  of  mind  with  mind. 
And  it  would  come  again;  it  was  surely  coming. 

Festina  lente — he  often  repeated  these  classic  words, — 
hurry  slowly,  hurry  slowly.  And  indeed  his  progress  in  the 
last  two  weeks  had  been  remarkable. 

She  had  consented  to  go  out  for  walks  with  him,  or  had 
consented  to  allow  him  to  accompany  her  when  she  went 
for  walks.  At  first  there  was  no  prearranged  plan.  Their 
meetings  seemed  to  occur  by  chance.  He  had  learnt  her 
habits,  and  if  he  guessed  that  she  was  going  to  such  and 
such  a  place — Kensington  Gardens,  the  old  palace  that 
she*  still  loved,  or  the  Regent's  Park, — well,  he  went  there 
too,  turned  up  accidentally.  But  then  her  pride  and  loyalty 
revolted  against  even  the  semblance  of  dissimulation;  she 
insisted  on  putting  everything  in  a  clear  light;  and  thence- 
forth, if  they  met  at  all,  it  was  to  be  by  definite  appointment. 

300 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"If  for  a  moment  I  thought  it  wrong,  I  wouldn't  do  it," 
she  said  firmly. 

Wrong?  What  a  notion!  If  two  lonely  people  taking 
exercise  for  the  benefit  of  their  health  may  not  join  forces 
and  stroll  together — two  old  friends, — why,  what  may  one 
do? 

The  candid  explanation  delighted  Lenny.  Another  turn- 
ing-point or  crisis  safely  negotiated.  A  step  forward  in 
the  line  leading  towards  those  purely  intellectual  gratifica- 
tions for  which  he  craved. 

They  were  companions  who  often  walked  side  by  side — 
but  still  at  arm's  length,  so  to  speak.  Keeping  vanity  out 
of  the  question,  one  could  not  but  suppose  that  after  the 
isolation  to  which  she  was  accustomed  a  willing  escort  must 
prove  an  agreeable  novelty.  It  really  made  no  difference 
whether  Dryden  was  away  or  at  home — in  Berlin  or  in  his 
Queen  Victoria  Street  office:  he  was  always  up  to  the  eye- 
brows in  business,  and  of  no  practical  use  to  his  wife. 
Lenny,  when  thinking  of  him,  employed  one  of  his 
favourite  thought-counters.  Gerald  was  a  negligible 
quantity. 

Gradually  he  succeeded  in  winning  her  to  the  sentimental 
meditations  that  he  himself  found  so  tenderly  soothing. 
Our  past — that  is  the  field  for  sentimental  exploration;  let 
us  open  memory's  gate,  and  enter  it  hand  in  hand.  The 
mists  hang  over  it — Alma,  do  you  remember  our  morning 
walks? — but  the  sun  will  presently  burst  through  the  white 
veil  and  show  us  wonderland. 

The  past  was  drawing  her.  He  felt  sure  that  she  too 
lived  much  in  the  past.  He  did  not  pretend  to  believe  her 
when  she  denied  or  protested.  She  was  always  thinking 
about  the  past,  although  she  said  that  one  ought  not  to 
think  of  it. 

"The  past  is  over  and   done  with."     When  they  were 

301 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

speaking  generally,  philosophizing,  she  often  said  that  sort 
of  thing.  "I  shall  never  agree  with  you,  Lenny.  One's 
dead  past  should  be  left  in  its  quiet  sepulchre.  It  should 
not  be  revived  by  oneself — at  any  rate.  If  it  rises 
like  an  ugly  phantom,  and  stalks  after  us — that's  another 
matter.  But  we  shouldn't  look  back.  It's  weakness  to  look 
back.  We  should  look  forward.  All  our  duties  lie  ahead, 
and  none  of  them  behind  us." 

And  once,  trying  to  confute  his  arguments,  she  said 
something  that  interested  him  intensely. 

"Lenny,  I  have  authority  on  my  side.  At  a  time  when 
I  was  very  miserable — scarcely  knowing  what  was  right 
or  wrong — and  those  much  wiser  than  myself  were  directing 
my  conduct,  they  taught  me  this  great  lesson.  We  are  not 
to  torment  ourselves  by  looking  back."     .     .     . 

"I  understand,"  he  said  softly.  "Alma  dear,  I  have 
read  all  your  thought." 

"I  don't  think  you  have.  In  fact  I  know  that  you 
couldn't  possibly  do  so." 

She  had  flushed.  She  turned  away  her  head,  and,  uncon- 
sciously quickening  her  steps,  walked  so  fast  that  he  could 
hardly  keep  up  with  her. 

But  he  felt  sure  that  his  intuitive  surmise  was  correct. 
She  had  been  alluding  to  that  dark  period  when,  losing 
him,  she  fell  back  into  the  hands  of  the  priests,  and  Gerald 
Dryden  came  courting  her.  And  the  priests  had  advised 
her  not  to  tell  Dryden  too  much.  She  would  have  made  a 
clean  breast  of  everything;  but  those  wiser  than  herself 
restrained  her. 

He  felt  a  momentary  glow  of  veneration  and  gratitude. 
Rome  may  have  her  faults;  but  there  is  something  sublime 
and  tremendous  about  her — a  wisdom  that  rides  with  such 
steadiness  over  the  troubled  seas  of  life,  a  doctrine  made 
for  all  time,  a  faith  which  discriminates  so  infallibly  between 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

essentials  and  non-essentials.  And,  say  what  you  will, 
her  priests  are  nearly  always  men  of  the  world. 

Lenny  did  not  venture  to  pursue  the  subject;  nor  did 
he  boast  of  his  clairvoyance;  but  he  thought  that  sooner  or 
later  he  would  be  questioning,  and  she  would  be  answering 
freely.  Nothing  could  possibly  be  more  interesting  than 
to  get  her  to  fill  in  all  those  parts  of  her  life  that  were  blank 
to  him.  Some  day  she  should  give  him  the  exact  words  of 
what  the  priests  had  said  to  her,  and  of  what  she  had  said 
to  Gerald;  and  in  exchange  he  would  give  her  a  minute 
record  of  all  his  emotions  immediately  after  the  parting. 
Perhaps  he  would  even  describe  his  state  of  fear  when  he 
fancied  that  she  had  committed  suicide.  Or  perhaps  he 
wouldn't  describe  that.  He  was  not  sure  whether  he  would 
or  he  wouldn't.  He  would  decide  when  the  proper  time 
came. 

Meanwhile  he  persistently  adhered  to  sugary  sentiment. 
He  made  her  speak  of  Haven  Lodge,  of  her  family,  of 
Father  Marchant's  church. 

"You  must  have  been  glad  to  be  among  your  people 
again." 

And  she  said  that  she  had  felt  very  glad. 

"By  the  way,  your  stepsisters!  Any  of  them  off  the 
shelf?" 

Yes,  she  said,  one  of  them,  Gladys,  had  married  a  soldier, 
and  gone  to  India.  Mrs.  Reed  was  rejoiced  at  this  happy- 
event. 

"And  your  father?" 

"Father  notices  nothing.  Father  has  aged.  Oh,  Lenny, 
I  saw  such  a  difference  last  Christmas.  It  went  to  my 
heart." 

Then  he  made  her  speak  of  her  dead  mother.  In  the 
past  he  had  never  shown  any  curiosity  about  this  lady;  but 
now  he  craved  for  the  very  fullest  particulars,  and  Alma, 

303 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

after  a  little  hesitation,  told  him  many  things  of  the  parent 
whom  she  had  greatly  loved  and  greatly  missed.  She  spoke 
sweetly — her  eyes  growing  moist  and  dark,  with  lashes 
blinking;  her  voice  taking  the  deep  tones  to  which  he 
liked  to  listen,  breaking  as  she  uttered  the  last  two  words 
of  the  story. 

"Poor  mother!" 

"Yes,  and  poor  Alma!  Oh,  how  I  understand  what 
she  was  to  you!"  and  he  nodded  his  head,  until  his  hat 
came  right  forward  on  his  forehead.  Then  readjusting  the 
hat,  he  continued  mournfully,  "Alma,  do  you  remember 
something  that  you  once  said  to  me — I  shall  never  forget 
it — about  our  joint  destinies,  how  they  were  interwoven? 
Well,  isn't  it  a  curious  thought — that  we  had  each  of  us 
lost  our  mother,  we  were  both  motherless,  when  you  and 
I  first  met?" 


XXXI 

HE  had  torn  the  confession  from  her. 
Days  were  drawing  out  now;   the  tardy  spring 
began  to  show  signs  of  its  approach;  and  one  after- 
noon, when  the  air  was  peculiarly  mild  and  soft,  they  sat 
for  quite  a  long  time  on  a  bench  in  Kensington  Gardens. 

Alma  had  been  talking  of  her  husband's  manifold  vir- 
tues, and  she  went  on  talking  as  though  she  would  never 
get  to  the  end  of  them.  Really  it  became  like  a  Biblical 
song,  or  a  rather  tedious  doxology. 

"He  is  so  good  that  he  has  made  me  think  better  of 
all  mankind.  If  you  only  knew  how  he  worked,  never  spar- 
ing himself,  driving  himself,  flogging  himself.  And  it  is 
all  for  me — he  would  tell  you  so  himself.  And  I  do  noth- 
ing for  him — never  have  been  able,  never  shall  be  able,  to 
repay  him  for  his  generosity,  his — his  love,  his  unceasing 
goodness." 

"And  yet,"  said  Lenny  quietly,  "you  are  not  happy 
with  him." 

Of  course  she  denied  it;  but  the  hour  had  come  for  per- 
sistence, and  he  pressed  her  more  persistently,  until  at  last 
she  acknowledged  the  truth. 

"Then  no — I  am  not  altogether  happy." 

"Ah!"  And  he  gave  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  "That  is 
what  I  feared." 

"If  you  think  there's  any  disloyalty  to  him  in  my  tell- 
ing you — you're  mistaken." 

She  had  hastily  brought  out  her  handkerchief,  and  was 
wiping  her  eyes. 

305 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Dear  Alma,  it  overwhelms  me  to  see  you  in  this  dis- 
tress." 

"All  right.  D-don't  be  overwhelmed,  Lenny.  It's  noth- 
ing to  do  with  you,  anyhow." 

She  put  away  her  handkerchief;  and,  though  her  lips 
trembled,  she  looked  at  him  resolutely. 

"But  I  think  it  is  everything  to  do  with  me — your  old- 
est friend.  If  I  haven't  the  right  to  sympathize  with  you, 
who  has?     And  if  you  mayn't  confide  your  secrets  to  me, 

why "     He  broke  off;  he  could  not  go  on  with  these 

vague  generalities;  he  must  be  frank  and  open.  "Alma, 
why  did  you  marry  him?" 

"Why?  What  a  question!  Only  you  would  have  asked 
me. 

"I  never  could  explain  it.  Literally,  it  surpassed  my 
comprehension." 

"I  dare  say  it  did." 

"One  hazarded  guesses,  of  course.  I  suppose  it  was  this 
terrible  feeling  of  loneliness — from  which  I  myself  am  now 
suffering." 

"Yes,  something  of  that  kind."  Her  voice  for  a  few 
moments  became  hard  and  metallic.  "I  was  feeling  just 
a  little  lonely,  slightly  neglected,  rather  tired  of  myself. 
I  did  it  to  escape  from  myself.  .  .  .  And  I  haven't 
succeeded."  Her  voice  suddenly  softened,  and  was  again 
melodious  to  the  ear.  "I  don't  even  make  him  happy — not 
as  happy  as  he  ought  to  be; — but  I  try,  Lenny.  That  is 
my  life — the  rest  of  my  life:  to  be  true  to  him." 

"Just  so.  Still  I  don't  understand  how  you  convinced 
yourself — I  mean,  quite  at  the  beginning — that  there  was 
any  fair  propect " 

"You  don't  understand?  Then  let  me  enlighten  you  as 
far  as  I  can." 

He  was  watching  her  with  acute  interest.  She  sat 
306 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

very  upright  and  rigid;  and  her  eyes  distinctly  flashed  at 
him. 

"Yes,  enlighten  me,"  he  whispered  soothingly. 

"I'd  rather  tell  you  more  about  him — but  you  won't 
really  understand  that  either." 

"Alma!     It's  unkind  to  suggest " 

"Can  you  understand  that  the  love  of  a  good  man  is 
something  so  rare  and  strange  that  we  women  can't  afford 
to  reject  it  lightly?  Can  you  understand  that  Gerald 
never  loved  any  other  woman  but  me?" 

"Yes,  yes — Alma  dear." 

He  was  rather  scared  by  her  earnestness.  But  it  seemed 
that,  having  started  her,  he  could  not  stop  her;  and  un- 
fortunately in  her  excitement  she  was  speaking  a  little  too 
loudly.     However,  there  was  nobody  within  ear-shot. 

"I  was  his  dream — isn't  that  worth  boasting  about?  I 
was  his  star — bright  to  him,  no  matter  how  faint  to  all 
others;  and  he  steered  by  his  star.  He  came  to  me  through 
the  darkness — was  always  coming,  though  I  never  knew, 
never  guessed.  .  .  .  These  were  the  flattering  things 
that  he  said  when  asking  me  to  be  his  wife — and  he  meant 
them.  They  were  true  then.  And  they  are  true  to-day. 
Do  you  understand  that?" 

He  watched  her  intently.  Her  eyes  were  truly  flashing, 
her  cheeks  were  full  of  delicate  colour,  the  tones  of  her 
voice  deepened  and  swelled  with  violent  emotion;  and  she 
had  lifted  both  her  hands  to  the  front  of  her  jacket.  He 
noticed  that  the  hands  trembled;  and  they  seemed  to  press 
against  her  bosom,  as  though  she  were  vainly  trying  to  keep 
back  the  flood  of  distress.  He  was  dreadfully  sorry  to 
see  her  agitate  herself  in  this  manner,  and  to  such  an  ex- 
tent; but  he  thought  that  she  looked  extraordinarily  pretty — 
almost  as  pretty  as  she  had  ever  looked. 

"Gerald  loved  me.  Can  you  understand  that?  Gerald 
307 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

wanted  me — this  worthless  me"  And  the  fragile,  gloved 
hands  pressed  and  shook.  "This  poor  broken  Alma — buf- 
feted by  fate — picked  up  and  tossed  aside  by  men — this  rag 
of  a  woman  was  to  him  a  thing  to  be  held  high — to  be 
cherished,  to  be  worshipped — the  woman  who  he  believed 
could  make  him  happy.  .  .  .  Now  can  you  under- 
stand ?" 

"Yes.  I  do  understand  that  his  affection — which  I 
don't  doubt,  which  I  never  doubted — would  have  great 
influence  with  you." 

The  handkerchief  appeared  again,  and  she  dabbed  at 
her  eyes. 

"And  if  I  am  unhappy,  it  is  only  for  his  sake.  Lenny, 
I  have  failed  him.     There's  the  bitterness." 

"Alma,  don't  give  way.  I'm  sure  you  reproach  your- 
self without  cause — quite  without  cause." 

"He  wanted  children — every  good  man  does.  And  I 
haven't  given  them  to  him.  He  tries  to  hide  his  dis- 
appointment— he  is  so  chivalrous  and  brave  that,  if  he  could 
help  it,  he  would  never  let  me  know  what  a  cruel,  cruel 
disappointment  it  has  been." 

Lenny  was  intensely  sorry  for  her.  He  watched  her 
and  admired  her.  Such  a  splendid  nature — refined  gold. 
Oh,  how  could  fate  be  so  unkind  to  his  poor  little  Alma! 

"Lenny,  it's  the  discrepancy  of  years  too — one  can't 
get  over  it." 

Her  voice  was  quiet  and  low  of  tone;  she  had  clasped 
her  hands  upon  her  lap;  and,  instead  of  being  rigid,  her 
figure  seemed  to  droop  from  the  slender  waist — like  some 
graceful  flower,  beaten  down  by  a  storm  that  is  now  over. 
He  noticed  the  pathetic  quiver  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth  ; 
her  whole  aspect  had  that  air  of  tragic  sweetness  that  he 
remembered  well. 

308 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"I  am  so  much  older  than  Gerald.  The  ugliness  of 
age  has  touched  me  already." 

"No,  no." 

"Yes,  it  has.  He  doesn't  see  it  yet — or  he  is  struggling 
against  facts.  He  is  brave  and  staunch — he  wont  see  it. 
For  a  little  while  he'll  succeed,  he'll  conquer  facts.  .  .  . 
But  in  ten  years  the  tragedy  will  begin.  This  is  merely 
prologue.  He  will  wake  one  day,  and  see  the  old,  faded, 
sexless  wretch  to  whom  he  has  tied  himself.  And  I  shall 
see  his  eyes  resting  on  every  young  woman  that  comes  our 
way — the  parlourmaid,  the  girls  who  bring  my  dresses 
from  the  shops,  the  daughters  of  his  friends.  He  won't 
do  it  basely  or  treacherously,  but  because  he  can't  help 
it — in  sheer  relief,  just  to  rest  his  eyes  with  youth  and 
freshness  and  joyous  life  after  they  have  looked  for  so 
long  at  staleness,  dryness,  deadness." 

"Alma!  These  ideas  are  morbid — simply  morbid.  Not 
the  least  ground  for  them." 

She  was  staring  straight  in  front  of  her,  and  her  voice 
grew  softer  and  softer. 

"I  think  I  shall  tell  him  to  snatch  any  joy  he  can  find. 
I  shall  say,  'Gerald,  you  have  been  good  to  me;  and  you 
must  not  be  unhappy  because  of  your  goodness.  Your  wife 
has  failed  you.  Take  mistresses  now.  I  won't  mind — I 
won't  suffer — I  will  be  glad,  if  you  are  glad.'  " 

"Alma,  how  can  you  talk  like  this?" 

"But  if  I  had  borne  him  children,  there  could  be  no 
tragedy.  I  should  look  forward  without  fear."  She  was 
still  staring,  as  though  across  the  paths  and  grass  she  could 
see  in  the  distance  all  that  she  spoke  of.  "Little  things — 
little  things!"  And  her  voice  was  so  faint  that  he  could 
only  just  hear  it.  "Little  things — weak  and  yet  strong! 
They  would  make  small  doors  all  over  his  heart,  to  run 

309 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

in  and  out  of — and  everywhere  a  child  can  pass  is  big 
enough  for  its  mother  to  creep  through." 

Lenny  looked  round  in  all  directions.  There  was  nobody 
near.     He  very  gently  patted  her  clasped  hands. 

"You  are  so  sweet,  so  good,  that  I  wish — most  truly — 
that  you  could  have  been  happy  in  this  marriage." 

She  made  no  answer.  It  was  as  if  her  thoughts  had 
taken  her  far  away,  and  she  could  not  yet  listen  to  his 
words,  however  well  chosen  they  might  be.  But  he  con- 
tinued, in  a  gentle  consolatory  tone. 

"That  is  much  for  me — of  all  people — to  be  able  to 
say.  It  proves  how  dear  you  were  to  me,  that  I  wished 
your  happiness — even  with  somebody  else.  .  .  .  Alma, 
do  listen  to  me.  .  .  .  You  must  not  entertain  all  these 
painful  ideas.  I  said  just  now  that  they  were  morbid; 
but  I  might  have  said  with  equal  truth  that  they  were 
delusions — simply  delusions.  Gerald  is  the  luckiest  of  mor- 
tals— to  be  envied." 

"Is  he?" 

"Yes,  to  be  envied — to  be  envied  more  than  perhaps 
you  would  like  me  to  say." 

She  was  not  listening.  He  withdrew  his  hand:  there 
was  no  pleasure  in  patting  her  if  she  did  not  know  he  was 
doing  it. 

"Alma  dear,  do  rouse  yourself.  Throw  off  these  un- 
comfortable sensations." 

She  raised  her  head,  and  turned  to  look  at  him  again. 
Her  eyes  were  dark,  with  deep  shadows  around  them;  and 
her  face  seemed  narrower,  the  features  pinched  as  if  by 
cold. 

"Yes,  Lenny.  What  were  you  saying?"  And  she 
shivered. 

"I  am  telling  you  that  you're  not  to  fancy  you're  getting 
310 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

old — or  in  any  way  losing  your  charm.  No  one  would 
see  it  so  well  as  I,  if  it  was  true.  But  it  isn't  true.  No, 
there  is  all  the  fascination  that  there  ever  was.  To  my  eyes 
you  are  still  quite  a  girl." 

"Lenny,  it  is  getting  late.    I  must  go  now." 

"Yes,  we'll  go.  But  just  one  minute.  I  have  so  loved 
this  confidential  talk.  It  was  what  I  pined  for.  And 
I've  so  much  to  say — to  cheer  you." 

"I   don't   require  cheering." 

"Alma,  this  isn't  kind.  .  .  .  Frankly,  I  see  now  ex- 
actly what  you  mean  about  the  discrepancy  of  years.  That 
is  true.  And  I  therefore  don't  attempt  to  contradict  it. 
He  is  younger  than  you.  That's  a  pity.  And  I  under- 
stand how  completely  it  destroys  what  ought  to  be  the 
greatest  joy  of  marriage — the  perfect  companionship. 
.     .     .     Oh,  Alma!     Ours  was  the  ideal  companionship." 

"Was  it,  Lenny?"  And  once  more  there  came  the  sharp 
metallic  ring  in  her  voice. 

"Yes,"  and  he  nodded  his  head,  and  sighed.  "Oh,  Alma, 
what  a  mess  we  have  made  of  our  lives!" 

"We?" 

"Well — I.  The  mistake  was  mine.  I  admit  it.  Oh, 
what  a  hideous  mistake  it  was!" 

"Lenny,  it  is  getting  cold.  I  can't  sit  here  any  longer." 
And  she  got  up  from  the  bench,  "Don't  trouble  to  sec 
me  home.    Really  I  would  rather  you  didn't." 

"Let  me  go  as  far  as  the  gates — at  least  to  the  gates. 
Don't  banish  me  to  loneliness  and  sadness  sooner  than  is 
necessary." 

He  walked  by  her  side,  talking  smoothly  and  easily.  He 
felt  wonderfully  peaceful  and  contented;  but  presently, 
speaking  of  Gerald,  he  said  something  that  she  considered 
derogatory  or  disparaging,  and  she  flashed  out  at  him  again. 

3U 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Lenny!"  she  was  rebuking  him  indignantly,  even  wrath- 
fully.  "You  forget  who  I  am.  You  insult  me,  as  well  as 
your  friend." 

But  Lenny  did  not  mind.  For  a  little  while  it  was  quite 
like  a  lovers'  quarrel — one  of  those  trifling  disagreements  in 
the  past,  a  temporary  flare-up  on  her  side  and  a  calm 
waiting  attitude  on  his,  nothing  serious;  for  they  never 
really  quarrelled.  And  now  all  this  carried  him  straight 
back  to  the  dear  old  days. 

"Alma,"  he  said  deprecatingly,  when  he  thought  she 
was  nearly  pacified,  "don't  be  huffed  by  my  frankness." 

"It  isn't  frankness:  it's  rudeness — and  utterly  horrid  of 
you." 

"When  I  said  that  Gerald  was  a  bore,  truly  I  didn't 
mean  to  be  unkind.  Good  gracious,  who  isn't  a  bore  some- 
times? I  dare  say  I  bore  people  myself.  It  is  purely  a 
matter  of   sympathy — it    is   a   question   of   companionship." 

"You  and  Gerald  got  on  very  well  at  Westchurch." 

"Yes — exactly.  There,  Alma!  You  know  how  much 
I  liked  him — but  it  wasn't  companionship;"  and  Lenny 
laughed  good-humouredly.  "How  we  used  to  tramp  up 
and  down  that  parade?  But  with  Gerald  one  couldn't  talk 
— he  was  like  a  child  toddling  by  one's  side,  and  prattling 
about  his  little  hopes  and  schemes.  And  it  is  the  same 
thing  now.  He  runs  on  without  a  pause  about  his  own 
affairs — very  interesting  to  him,  of  course.  It  is  all  what 
I  did  yesterday  and  what  I  intend  to  do  to-morrow.  Well, 
that  isn't  conversation!' 

They  were  near  the  gates,  and  Alma  stopped  short. 

"Lenny,  I  think  it  is  horrid  of  you  to  speak  of  Gerald 
in  this  way — and  if  you  do  it,  I  can  never  meet  you  again." 

"I  won't  do  it.  Sooner  than  do  it,  I'll  forget  that  Ger- 
ald exists." 

"Good-night.     No,  not  a  step  further." 
312 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

He  did  not  insist;  he  thought  that  he  had  made  a  very 
big  step  already. 

Next  morning  he  received  a  letter  from  her.  She  wrote 
to  say  she  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  nothing  could 
be  gained  by  their  meetings,  and  they  must  therefore  cease. 
She  was  sorry  that  he  felt  so  lonely  and  miserable, 
but  she  could  not  assist  him  to  regain  his  peace  of  mind. 
She  advised  him  to  try  the  effect  of  change  of  air,  and 
to  occupy  his  time  with  some  kind  of  regular  work;  and, 
as  he  understood  her  meaning,  she  hinted  at  a  hope  that 
chance  or  thought  might  one  day  direct  him  to  seek  con- 
solation where  she  herself  had  found  it.  That  meant  relig- 
ion— the  bosom  of  Rome — and  so  on.  Then  she  wound 
up  by  praise  of  Gerald,  and  a  request  that  Lenny  would 
not  take  too  seriously  what  she  had  let  fall  about  certain 
regrets  in  her  own  life. 

He  did  not  reply  by  another  letter.  Litera  scripta  manet 
— one  had  not  forgotten  all  one's  Latin.  He  went  to  see 
her,  and  made  a  poignant  appeal  to  her  compassion.  She 
was  doing  him  good;  she  was  taking  him  out  of  himself, 
leading  him  towards  equanimity — he  implored  her  not  to 
cast  him  back  into  outer  darkness. 


XXXII 

HE  was  the  victim  now  of  an  intense  longing  for  one 
of  the  old  embraces.  He  scarcely  knew  when  the 
longing  began,  or  when  he  first  recognized  that  it 
was  there;  but,  once  having  gained  status  as  a  plain  fact,  it 
strengthened  and  grew  more  imperious  at  every  meeting. 
While  he  was  with  her  its  repression  was  a  difficulty  that 
poisoned  all  his  pleasure;  while  he  was  away  from  her  its 
indulgence  filled  the  whole  realm  of  his  imagination,  mock- 
ing him  with  intangible  bliss,  enervating,  exhausting,  almost 
sickening  him  with  recurrent  series  of  thought  pictures. 

And  the  longing  made  him  meditate  more  boldly  than 
was  his  custom.  Logic  of  facts  again!  All  mental  activity 
is  sustained  by  a  physical  basis,  and  intellectual  gratifications 
cannot  stand  quite  alone.  Communion  of  minds  may  be  the 
highest  joy;  but  a  companionship  of  the  opposite  sexes 
that  contains  nothing  more  substantial  is  a  phenomenon 
so  unusual  that  one  may  surmise  it  to  be  repugnant  to 
Nature's  laws.  Then  he  remembered  something,  directly 
bearing  on  this  argument,  that  he  had  once  read  in  a  trans- 
lation of  a  learned  German  book.  Even  in  friendships  be- 
tween rough  unemotional  men,  all  those  outward  manifesta- 
tions of  regard,  such  as  gripping  of  hands,  slapping  of  shoul- 
ders, and  digging  one  another  in  the  ribs,  serve  a  useful  pur- 
pose and  have  their  function  in  nourishing  the  jovial  sense  of 
affectionate  good-fellowship. 

Then  he  remembered  something  else  that  he  had  read 
or  heard.  Given  favourable  opportunities,  if  a  woman 
has  once  been  really  yours,  you  can  always  make  her  yours 

314 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

again.  And  something  else  still.  The  first  lover  has  an 
irrefutable,  almost  invincible  claim  upon  a  woman's  heart. 
Something  mysterious,  perhaps  inexplicable  about  this,  but 
probably  a  lot  of  truth  in  it — the  impress  of  an  image  when 
the  mind  is  plastic — a  chain  forged,  which  may  be  hidden, 
but  cannot  be  broken. 

Gerald  Dryden  was  in  London  now;  but  he  would  soon 
be  going  to  France — to  Lyons,  to  Marseilles,  and  to  an- 
other town.  Once,  as  Alma  related  without  a  word  of 
complaint,  he  had  been  away  for  eight  months — working 
through  the  republics  of  South  America,  a  commercial  trav- 
eller touting  for  orders.  What  a  husband!  Nearly  always 
away,  and  when  at  home  making  himself  a  wet-blanket, 
showing  his  poor  little  wife  that  she  is  not  all-sufficient, 
depressing  her  because  he  has  not  obtained  all  his  wishes. 

But  Lenny  had  promised  to  forget  Dryden.  Only  the 
thought  of  those  eight  months  opened  out  wide  regrets 
for  lost  possibilities.  How  many  afternoons  and  evenings 
in  eight  months!  Why  had  he  permitted  the  separation 
to  extend  through  so  many  wasted  years?  He  should  have 
made  some  effort  to  discover  where  she  was  and  how  she 
was.  He  ought  to  have  written  to  tell  her  about  himself. 
It  was  wrong  not  to  write  to  her. 

She  had  yielded  to  his  importunity,  and  they  continued 
to  go  about  together.  Several  times  she  talked  to  him 
seriously  and  very  sweetly  of  his  future.  Why  wasn't 
he  more  ambitious?  Why  didn't  he  go  into  Parliament? 
Or  if  he  could  not  afford  that,  there  were  other  things 
that  he  could  do — there  are  so  many  useful  things  that 
can  be  done  by  a  man  who  is  not  compelled  to  work  for 
his  living. 

"Lenny,  I'm  certain  that  you  would  be  the  better  for  a 
settled  purpose  and  a  regular  occupation." 
*1  315 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

He  did  not  of  course  reply  that  just  now  he  had  both. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  at  her. 

"My  health!  I  greatly  doubt  if  my  health  would 
justify " 

"But,  Lenny,  your  health  seems  all  right,"  and  she 
glanced  at  him  searchingly. 

"Do  I  look  all  right,  Alma?" 

"Yes,  on  the  whole,  I  think  you  look  quite  well — strong, 
I  mean — healthy." 

There  was  melancholy  in  his  smile,  and  he  shook  his 
head.  "Then,  Alma,  I  am  like  a  damaged  watch — its  face 
looks  all  right,  it  goes  all  right  for  a  little  while,  and  then 
the  movement  ceases.  Alma,  the  mainspring  of  my  life  is 
broken." 

"I  doii't  believe  it — I — I  shall  never  believe  it." 

Her  tender  care  for  his  future  gratified  him;  but  it  was 
to  the  past  that  he  wished  to  confine  her  attention.  It  was 
the  past  that  would  aid  him  now.  It  was  the  past  that  in- 
sensibly would  draw  them  together. 

And  gradually,  perhaps  unconsciously,  she  submitted  to 
his  controlling  purpose.  They  glided  into  the  phase  of 
Do-you-remember  ? — the  phase  that  is  so  common  and  so 
entrancing  when  friends  renew  association  after  long  years. 

"Alma,  do  you  remember  Miss  Workman  pouring  out  the 
hot  water  for  you?" 

Alma  used  to  have  command  of  the  tea-pot  at  those  pleas- 
ant little  parties;  but  once  Miss  Workman  replenished  the 
silver  vessel,  and  talked  politics  at  the  same  time — and  she 
went  on  talking  and  pouring.  No  one  could  check  her. 
She  flooded  the  tea-table,  she  emptied  the  kettle,  she  nearly 
scalded  Mrs.  Blacklock. 

They  both  laughed,  like  children,  at  the  memory  of  this, 
trivial  episode.  The  long  years  had  given  value  to  the  fee- 
blest jest.     And  so  it  was  with  other  reminiscences — some 

316 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

magic  property  attaching  to  that  which  is  irrevocably  van- 
ished made  small  matters  appear  vastly  important  or  signifi- 
cant. 

"Lenny,  do  you  remember  Mr.  Tucker's  poodle?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

Alma  softened  perceptibly  during  such  childish  chatter 
as  this;  but  she  hardened  if  he  tried  to  evoke  less  innocent 
recollections.  She  would  not  pass  on  in  memory  from 
Westchurch  to  London.  She  would  not  remember  any 
events,  however  amusing,  in  the  time  that  had  elapsed 
between  her  leaving  Westchurch  and  her  marrying  Dry- 
den. 

On  a  Sunday  late  in  March  she  consented,  after  much 
persuasion,  to  go  a  little  way  out  of  London  with  him. 
He  suggested  Windsor — they  would  go  by  train,  because 
from  the  first  she  resolutely  refused  to  make  use  of  his 
motor,  and  he  had  got  rid  of  it  two  months  earlier  than 
usual.  Windsor,  she  said,  was  too  far  off,  but  they  might 
perhaps  go  to  Kew  Gardens.  He  did  not  remind  her  that 
Kew  was  one  of  the  spots  they  had  often  visited  in  the 
blank  unremembered  period. 

It  was  a  dull,  cheerless  day,  and  the  gardens  showed 
them  bare  trees,  flowerless  beds,  stretches  of  wet  grass, 
and  very  little  else.  Grey  mist  creeping  up  from  the  river, 
no  sunlight,  no  colour,  and  no  laughter — they  walked  along 
the  damp  paths  through  cold  and  empty  woods,  and  the 
all-pervading  sadness  of  the  hour  and  the  place  possessed 
them. 

A  few  people  were  scattered  here  and  there  about  the 
glass-house;  but  the  expanse  of  wild  garden  was  deserted. 
For  a  while  they  were  quite  alone,  wandering  aimlessly  be- 
neath gaunt  beeches  and  gloomy  firs,  pausing  to  peer  down 
dim  vistas  and  to  watch  the  dark  water  of  a  small  lake. 
And  it  seemed  to  him  that  Alma,  as  she  grew  sadder,  soft- 

317 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

ened  more  and  more.  He  succeeded  immediately  when  he 
tried  to  make  her  speak  of  the  obliterated  epoch.  He  had 
asked  her  about  her  old  work  at  the  London  offices;  and  she 
told  him  of  its  drab  monotony,  the  weariness  of  pamphlet 
compilation,  the  repetitive  annoyance  caused  by  stupid  inqui- 
rers who  could  not  comprehend  the  simplest  theories  of  the 
Association.  And,  talking,  she  walked  slowly,  languidly, 
and  seemed  so  pale  and  limp  and  tired  that  his  whole  being 
yearned  over  her.  His  own  Alma — so  sad  then,  and  so  tired 
now.     Oh,  cruel  and  unjust  fate! 

Very  gently  he  slipped  his  arm  through  hers  and  sup- 
ported her.  She  still  talked  of  the  time  of  dear  Frances 
Shipham,  of  the  newspaper  contributors,  the  queer  women 
who  came  to  the  flat;  and  presently,  when  they  paused  at 
the  turning  of  another  path,  he  took  her  hand  and  held 
it  in  his. 

A  sad,  but  most  delicious  ramble,  with  the  dusk  falling 
and  the  mists  rising — they  walked  close  together,  side  by 
side,  like  two  ghosts  of  lovers. 

And  he  found  that  he  might  gently  press  her  fingers 
before  he  relinquished  them ;  he  might  rest  his  hand  upon 
her  shoulder — but  when  he  slid  the  hand  from  her  shoulder 
to  her  neck,  she  stopped  him.    She  always  stopped  him. 

"Lenny,  don't." 

"Oh,  Alma,"  and  his  voice  sounded  hoarse  and  shaky, 
"oh,  be  nice  to  me — be  nice  to  me  as  you  used  to  be  in 
the  dear  old  days." 

Then  it  was  as  if  she  awoke  out  of  a  dream.  She  pushed 
his  hand  roughly  from  her,  stepped  back,  and  almost  glared 
at  him. 

"Lenny,  since  you  can't  understand,  I'll  never  see  you 
again." 

"Alma,"  he  murmured  imploringly. 

Truly  he  did  not  understand.     Just  now  it  seemed  to 

318 


■ 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

him  that  he  had  succeeded  in  exercising  the  power  that 
must  logically  be  his;  she  had  felt  the  chain  of  habit  con- 
straining her  to  submission;  what  she  had  been  in  the  past 
she  was  about  to  become  again — the  servant  of  his  wish. 
But  now  everything  seemed  to  have  broken  loose.  She  had 
snapped  the  chain,  and  was  angrily  trampling  it  under  her 
feet. 

"Alma,  why  won't  you  be  nice  to  me?" 

They  went  home  sadly  and  silently.  No  more  reminis- 
cences— and  not  one  smile.  He  suspected  that  he  had  not 
hurried  slowly  enough.  And,  trying  to  read  her  thoughts, 
he  guessed  that  she  had  suffered  his  slight  caresses  mechani- 
cally— too  much  engrossed  by  the  conversation  to  notice 
them;  and,  angry  with  herself  for  this  lapse  of  attention, 
for  being  as  it  were  thrown  off  her  guard,  she  was  harshly 
punishing  him. 

Nevertheless  something  that  she  said  while  upbraiding 
him  made  his  pulses  throb,  and  sent  a  flame  of  pleasure 
rushing  through  his  veins.  The  words  and  their  tone  com- 
bined to  change  a  reprimand  into  an  entreaty.  He  could 
not  afterwards  recall  the  exact  words,  but  they  seemed 
to  pray  him  not  to  urge  her  further.  Then  he  did  possess 
power  over  her,  and  she  dreaded  the  power? 

She  said  that  she  would  see  him  no  more ;  but  she  relented. 
He  had  felt  sure  that  she  would  relent.  Obviously  she 
must  enjoy  these  outings:  in  the  utter  loneliness  and  bore- 
dom of  her  life  she  must  crave  for  relief. 

On  a  bright  April  morning  they  went  down  to  Kingston 
— another  place  that  for  him  was  hallowed  by  tender  mem- 
pries.  They  would  walk  by  the  water's  edge,  see  the  trees 
in  the  Home  Park,  have  tea  at  the  old  shop  near  the  market 
square;  and  then  come  quietly  home — just  as  they  used  to 
do. 

319 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

The  sun  shone,  the  air  was  soft  and  warm,  and  Alma 
looked  sweetly  pretty.  She  wore  a  brown  frock,  with  a 
plain  countrified  hat — not  one  of  her  big  feathered  hats — 
and  through  the  white  spotted  veil  her  eyes  gleamed 
brightly,  and  her  cheeks  had  a  glowing  pinkness.  They 
sat  opposite  to  each  other,  and  though  there  was  nobody 
else  in  the  compartment  they  talked  very  little.  Nearly 
all  the  way  from  Waterloo  to  Kingston,  he  was  silently 
watching  her  and  admiring  her. 

"Alma,"  he  said,  towards  the  end  of  their  journey,  "I 
wish  I  had  a  looking-glass  to  show  you  yourself  at  this  min- 
ute. You  wouldn't  talk  of  being  old.  Your  eyes  are 
flashing  like  sunbeams  on  glass,  your  face  is  full  of  rose 
petals." 

"Lenny,  why  do  you  flatter  me?" 

"It  isn't  flattery.  In  that  veil,  you  are  quite  absurdly 
young;  you  are  a  girl  of  eighteen — you  are  Alma  as  I  first 
saw  her." 

"My  veil!  It's  my  veil,  Lenny — that  hides  the  ugly 
truth." 

"No,  the  glorious  truth." 

She  smiled  sadly,  and  spoke  sadly.  "Time  won't  stand 
still  for  us.  Everybody  is  getting  old.  I  told  you  how 
I  felt  it  at  Westchurch — every  face  so  changed.  My  father 
— Miss  Workman — Dr.  Searle — every  one  of  them  grown 
so  old — so  old." 

Lenny  looked  at  her  anxiously,  and  asked  if  she  thought 
that  he  too  showed  any  signs  of  age. 

"Oh,  in  your  case  it's  of  no  consequence." 

"Why?  .  .  .  Ah,  that  means  you  do  see  changes. 
Tell  me  candidly.  .  .  .  Describe  me.  Tell  me  what  I 
am  like — I  mean,  if  I  were  a  stranger,  what  would  be  your 
impression?     Describe  me." 

And  he   went   on   talking  eagerly   and   anxiously.      He 


IN   COTTON  WOOL 

had  asked  her  to  describe  him,  but  in  fact  he  described 
himself. 

"My  hair  is  grey,  at  the  sides;  but  I'm  not  bald.  I'd 
rather  be  grey  than  bald.  Many  men  are  bald  quite  young. 
I'm  solid;  but  it's  muscle,  you  know — not  fat.  I  feel  just 
the  same  as  I  always  did — honestly,  not  a  day  older — 
except  in  the  one  thing  that  I  get  tired  more  easily." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "perhaps  that  is  all  that  I  notice — 
just  the  something  different;"  and  she  turned  her  head, 
and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"Yes,  I  am  often  tired.  But  not  now,  Alma.  Never 
when  I'm  with  you." 

He  was  satisfied.  She  had  not  flattered  him.  She  would 
not  pay  him  the  tiniest  little  compliment;  but  he  had  the 
pleasant  conviction  that  in  her  secret  heart  she  thought, 
if  he  had  changed  at  all,  he  had  changed  for  the  better. 
She,  quite  as  well  as  himself,  could  see  that  the  grey 
hair,  the  pallor,  and  the  few  lines  about  his  eyes  added 
distinction. 

They  walked  through  the  picturesque  town,  and  along 
that  formal  parade  by  the  quiet,  locked  Thames.  Trees  on 
the  other  side  of  the  water  had  vernal  tints;  the  sky  was 
a  faint  blue,  flecked  with  cloud;  the  sunlight  shone  feebly 
on  the  land  and  brightly  on  the  water;  and  the  air  wafted 
towards  one  indefinite  promises  and  caressing  hopes.  They 
sat  upon  a  bench  and  glanced  idly  at  people  passing  to  and 
fro,  nursemaids  and  children,  young  men  and  young  women, 
lovers  and  friends.  At  a  distance  the  bridge  glittered  whitely 
above  barges  in  tiers,  an  anchored  steamer,  and  two  punts 
with  red  sails.  A  ripple  and  then  a  wave  ran  across  the 
sunlit  water  as  a  noisy  tug  went  by ;  and  after  it  had  gone 
there  was  a  splashing  and  flopping  noise  as  its  wash  struck 
the  stonework  of  the  shore. 

"Very  well   kept  up — this  parade,"  said   Lenny,   glanc- 

321 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

fng  at  the  strips  of  grass,  the  shrubs,  and  iron  railings. 
"A  great  amenity,  for  residents  as  well  as  visitors." 

Except  that  it  was  beside  a  river  instead  of  a  sea,  it 
might  have  been  the  Westchurch  parade.  The  scene,  har- 
monizing with  his  thoughts,  held  him  in  the  happy  past. 

"Alma,"  he  said  abruptly,  "raise  your  veil.  I'm  sure  it's 
hot  and  stuffy  for  you.     Enjoy  the  air." 

But  she  assured  him  that  she  experienced  no  incon- 
venience from  the  veil. 

"Yes,  do.  I  ask  it  as  a  favour.  Humour  me  in  this. 
A  fancy.  I'll  explain  it  presently;"  and  he  got  up.  "Do 
it  while  I  walk  on  a  little  way.  Please!  And  you  are  to 
sit  here  until  I  stop  and  turn.  Then  jump  up  and  come  to 
me — with  your  veil  raised." 

He  nodded  his  head,  smiled  gaily,  and  walked  away. 
Without  once  looking  round,  he  walked  along  the  parade 
for  about  three  hundred  yards.  Then  he  stopped  and 
turned. 

A  small  black  figure  on  a  remote  seat — he  stood  watching 
it  intently.  It  had  moved;  it  was  coming  towards  him; 
it  was  changing  from  black  to  brown.  He  watched  with 
breathless  interest. 

Quite  young — a  tall  slender  girl,  swinging  long  legs  in 
a  splendid  graceful  rhythm  of  health  and  strength;  a  dark- 
haired  unveiled  girl,  carrying  her  small  head  defiantly 
high; — his  girl,  his  own  lost  Alma,  exactly  as  she  was  years 
ago,  fresh  and  young  and  sweet,  coming  to  him  on  bright 
mornings  along  the  dear  old  esplanade. 

Then,  as  she  got  quite  close  and  stood  before  him,  smil- 
ing in  the  sunlight,  he  saw  all  the  change — havoc,  ravages, 
a  glowing  picture  destroyed  by  time.  For  a  moment  he 
could  see  it,  and  then  she  was  almost  unchanged  again. 
And  truly  it  amounted  to  nothing — features  slightly 
pinched,  hardness  of  outline,  lack  of  blood  colour  in  lips, 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

and  some  smooth  polish  or  white  lustre  of  the  skin  now 
not  discoverable, — nothing  really  and  truly. 

"Lenny,  why  did  you  make  me  do  that?" 

The  words  were  music — thrilling  and  stirring  as  the 
sound  of  brass  and  cymbal.  That  was  exactly  how  she 
used  to  speak  to  him:  "Lenny,  you  oughtn't  to  have 
made  me  do  it.  .  .  .  Lenny,  don't  make  me  do  what  I 
know  isn't  right." 

"Dear  Alma,"  he  said  enthusiastically.  "You  have  re- 
stored every  illusion  for  me.  The  sight  of  you  links  me 
with  my  youth — brings  my  happiness  to  life  once  more." 

There  was  nobody  else  in  their  compartment  during  the 
homeward  journey,  and  for  a  little  while  they  sat  side  by 
side. 

"Alma,  look — the  river  again!     How  pretty!" 

And  indeed  it  was  a  pretty  peep — a  grey  stream,  another 
old  bridge,  and  a  wooded  hill,  all  faint  and  soft  in  the 
evening  light. 

As  she  leaned  forward  to  look  at  it,  he  put  his  arm 
round  her  waist  and  tried  to  draw  her  to  him.  But  she 
became  rigid,  unbending;  and  when  she  turned  her  face, 
he  saw  that  it  was  stern  and  cold. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  humbly;  and  he  withdrew  his  arm. 
"Don't  move.     I  won't  do  it,  if  you  tell  me  not  to." 

She  had  got  up,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  journey  she 
sat  opposite  to  him. 

"Why  do  you  desert  me,  Alma,  when  you  see  that  I 
obey  you — however  hard  it  is?" 

He  was  sick  with  disappointment;  his  shoulders  drooped; 
he  looked  like  a  man  worn  out  by  heavy  physical  exertion. 
She  was  staring  out  of  the  window  at  flat  park-land  and  tall 
trees ;  but  she  glanced  at  him  as  the  train  entered  a  shallow 
cutting  and  slackened  speed. 

"Thank  you,  Lenny."  Her  face  had  suddenly  softened, 
323 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

and  gently  and  compassionately  she  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  knee.  "It  was  good  of  you  to  understand  that  you 
must  not  ask  for  impossibilities." 

Her  hand  had  gone  before  she  finished  speaking.  But 
at  her  touch  the  longing  for  the  forbidden  delights  tortured 
him.  It  was  nothing  to  him  that  she  had  lost  or  was  rapidly 
losing  her  beauty,  that  she  was  old,  with  weary  eyes,  pinched 
cheeks,  and  bloodless  lips.  It  was  he  and  not  she  who  felt 
the  chain  of  habit,  cruel  and  unbreakable,  dragging  him 
irresistibly;  contact  with  her  revived  in  one  moment  seven 
dead  years;  a  thousand  recorded  sensations  added  themselves 
together  to  give  thousandfold  force  to  the  present  sensa- 
tion. The  most  lovely  woman  in  the  world  could  not  so 
have  affected  him.  Had  they  all  come  thronging  to  madden 
and  allure,  had  the  women  of  history  emerged  from  twenty 
centuries  and  wooed  him  with  the  siren-spells  that  cap- 
tured kings,  overturned  thrones,  and  enslaved  whole  peo- 
ples, he  would  have  rejected  them  as  useless  in  this  his 
great  need. 


XXXIII 

LENNY  had  done  an  odd  thing.  Without  any  inten- 
tion of  permanently  shifting  his  quarters  from  Albert 
Street,  he  had  taken  rooms  at  that  big  hotel  near  the 
Embankment  where  he  had  once  stayed  for  so  many  months. 

His  rooms  were  some  of  the  best  in  the  hotel,  what 
they  called  "a  separate  suite,"  on  the  ground  floor — that 
is  to  say,  you  approached  them  through  level  corridors 
from  the  front  hall  and  the  public  saloons;  but  when  you 
got  into  them,  you  found  that  by  reason  of  the  sloping 
site  you  were  two  stories  up  on  this  other  side  of  the 
building.  They  were  thus  charmingly  quiet,  well  away 
from  the  bustle  and  movement  of  the  hotel's  main  life; 
beautifully  furnished,  too,  and  with  a  view  that,  although 
restricted,  gave  one  a  pleasant  glimpse  of  the  river  and 
railway  bridge.  One  might  enter  them,  if  one  pleased, 
by  a  back  entrance  and  a  silent  unfrequented  staircase.  They 
were  very  expensive — but  Lenny  did  not  mind  that. 

He  enjoyed  the  isolation  and  mystery  of  the  back  part 
and  the  animation  and  gaiety  of  the  front  part  of  the  hotel. 
He  used  to  sit  about  in  the  hall  or  the  lounge;  then  retire 
into  his  retreat,  and  think — and  always  his  thoughts  were 
of  the  intensely  interesting  past.  It  was  here,  under  this 
vast  roof,  that  he  had  gained  experiences  and  developed 
faculties.  In  that  grill-room  he  had  eaten  simple  little  din- 
ners— a  soothing  memory.  In  that  smoking-room  he  had 
met  McAndrew  and  his  gang  of  toadies,  the  sharks  who 
might  have  ruined  him  if  he  had  not  pulled  up  short — an 

325 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

exciting  memory.  "Yes,"  he  used  to  think,  "I  was  here  at 
the  time  when  I  was  beginning  to  get  over  my  great  grief, 
and  when  the  whole  world  smiled  again,  when  I  felt  so  full 
of  hope  and  joy  and  ebullient  energy." 

And  it  seemed  to  him  that  once  more  a  wise  instinct 
had  directed  him  in  this  whim  of  his.  Although  by  tempo- 
rarily abandoning  Albert  Street  he  had  not  obtained  a  real 
change  of  air,  he  had  given  himself  a  change  of  scene,  and 
the  change  was  doing  him  good.  The  association  of  ideas, 
the  memories,  and  the  thoughts,  all  assisted  in  carrying  him 
back  to  happier  days;  and  he  felt  younger,  more  hopeful, 
more  energetic  than  he  had  felt  for  a  long  while.  If  for 
no  other  reason,  it  would  have  been  well  worth  staying 
here. 

But  he  had  another  reason.  He  wanted  to  get  Alma  to 
come  to  tea  with  him.  He  yearned  to  be  really  alone  with 
her — shut  in,  surrounded  by  four  walls,  behind  doors  that 
would  not  be  opened  unexpectedly,  in  a  small  castle  of  his 
very  own,  where  he  would  be  able  to  talk  without  dropping 
his  voice  for  fear  of  listeners,  to  take  her  hand,  hold  it, 
and  yet  not  have  to  guard  against  prying,  inquisitive  eyes. 
He  longed,  he  pined,  he  craved  for  this  bliss  of  uninterrupted 
talk  and  unobserved  gestures.  Nevertheless  he  hesitated 
to  ask  her  for  the  boon.  She  would  refuse;  and  perhaps 
be  worried,  even  alarmed  by  such  an  invitation.  He  must 
trust  to  chance. 

And  the  chance  came.  So  many  opportunities  gliding 
away, — absolute  freedom  of  days  and  weeks, — her  husband, 
who  had  been  busy  in  France  for  a  fortnight,  returning 
to-morrow ; — but  now  on  this  Saturday  afternoon  the  natural 
opportunity  presented  itself. 

They  had  gone  to  a  morning  performance  at  the  theatre 
— that  pretty  little  playhouse  by  the  railway  bridge,  close 
to  his  hotel.    Alma  wore  black  to-day,  and  he  thought  he 

326 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

liked  her  better  in  black  than  in  any  colour.  She  loved 
the  play,  and  thanked  him  delightfully  for  bringing  her 
to  it — he  said  that  it  was  a  piece  that  she  really  ought 
to  see. 

The  fable  and  its  setting  charmed  one — an  incident  in  the 
lives  of  some  sailors  and  marines,  honourable  ambitions  and 
kindly  self-effacements; — you  could  hear  the  brave  hearts 
beating,  while  the  sea-breeze  blew  clean  and  fresh  in  an 
atmosphere  of  valour  and  integrity.  You  could  not  be 
surprised  that  the  play  was  a  huge  success.  Lenny  also 
said  he  loved  it — it  brought  a  lump  into  his  throat  and  made 
his  eyes  wet.  And  above  all,  he  praised  the  tone  of  it. 
"At  once  manly  and  gentlemanly,"  he  declared,  with  epi- 
grammatic enthusiasm. 

Then,  when  the  play  was  over,  he  said  he  would  give 
her  tea  at  the  nearest  hotel,  and  hurried  her  away. 

"Lenny,  isn't  that  the  place  where  we  said  good-bye? 
Oh,  I'd  rather  not  go  there.     Oh,  anywhere  else." 

But,  persuading  her  that  it  was  the  only  place  available 
and  convenient,  he  led  her  round  the  building  to  the  back 
entrance. 

"Lenny,  this  isn't  the  same  place?" 

"Yes,  yes  it  is.  We  can  get  in  easier  this  way — avoid 
the  crowd." 

Then  he  ushered  her  up  the  quiet  staircase,  and  led 
her  into  the  sitting-room  of  his  fine  expensive  suite. 

She  looked  about  her  in  surprise,  and  then  told  him  that 
she  could  not  have  tea  with  him  in  a  private  room.  But 
he  implored  her  to  grant  this  favour. 

"Alma,  just  for  once.  I'll  ring  the  bell — I'll  get  tea 
in  two  minutes — and  we  shall  be  comfortable  here,  not 
stared  at,  all  by  ourselves." 

"Lenny,    don't   make    me.      It   isn't   right.      If    anyone 

knew " 

327 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Who  can  know?  Don't  be  so  conventional.  Alma, 
I  have  been  praying  for  this — you  and  I  alone — to  talk, 
to  be  quiet,  by  ourselves." 

The  door  of  his  bedroom  stood  open,  and  he  pointed 
to  it. 

"Go  and  put  your  hat  in  there." 

"I'm  not  going  to  take  off  my  hat." 

"Oh,  yes,  take  off  your  hat;"  and  he  went  on  pleading. 
"Yes,  for  this  once,  let  it  be  like  the  old  days." 

"No,  the  old  days  are  gone.  I  don't  care  to  be  re- 
minded of  them." 

"I  want  to  see  your  pretty  hair.  Oh,  Alma,  be  nice 
to  me.  Take  off  your  hat  and  your  coat — and  let  me 
believe  that  the  past  has  come  again.  Give  me  the  illusion 
for  one  brief  hour." 

"Lenny,  I  mustn't  stay  here.     Please  don't  ask  me." 

Then  she  uttered  a  frightened  cry. 

"Lenny!  Don't,  don't  be  cowardly — don't  make  me 
Ashamed  that  I  ever  knew  you." 

He  had  clasped  her  with  both  arms,  and  he  was  kissing 
her  face  in  a  furious  ecstasy. 

"Alma — darling  girl — don't  struggle."  She  was  strug- 
gling desperately.  "I  must  ...  I  can't  help  it.  You 
love  me  still.    Why  not  ?" 

He  could  not  control  himself.  He  was  like  a  man  half 
dead  of  thirst  drinking  at  a  pool.  He  was  violent  and  re- 
morseless as  a  starved  beast  grasping  its  prey, 

"Lenny!"    And  she  continued  to  struggle. 

"You  belong  to  me.  Fate!  What  you  said  yourself — 
the  unseen  powers !"  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  strength  of 
his  desire  had  endowed  him  with  terrific  and  incredible 
powers.  He  was  a  giant,  and  something  weak  and  small 
as  an  insect  was  opposing  her  will  to  his.  "Alma  .  .  . 
My  Alma.     .     .     .     My  own  sweet  Alma." 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

The  daylight  had  not  yet  faded,  but  grey  mists  rising 
from  the  river  hid  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun;  beneath 
the  railway  bridge  motionless  shadows  deepened  and  grew 
black;  and  here  in  the  room,  when  Lenny  turned  from 
the  windows,  shadows  surrounded  him — shadows  that  flitted, 
hovered,  and  danced,  as  flames  darted  and  sank  on  the 
hearth.  Twilight,  shadows,  and  the  flicker  of  fire — how 
those  things  haunted  him  during  the  important  hours  of 
his  life !  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  past  had  returned  frag- 
mentary; two  chapters  of  his  marvellous  history,  trying 
to  repeat  themselves,  had  got  mixed — the  opening  of  a 
blissful  chapter  was  being  followed  by  the  end  of  a  painful 
chapter. 

All  this  that  was  occurring  now  had  occurred  before  in 
this  very  building — but  higher  up,  on  another  floor,  in  a 
cheaper  and  more  commonly  furnished  apartment.  The 
episode  had  become  exactly  like  that  of  their  parting. 

Here  was  Alma  lying  on  the  sofa,  with  her  face  upon 
her  arms,  in  exactly  the  attitude  he  remembered;  and  weep- 
ing now — but  not  passionately  as  then,  no  noisy  sobs ;  a  quiet 
flow  of  wretchedness  and  hopelessness,  as  though  life  itself 
was  flowing  from  her. 

And  here  was  he,  just  as  then,  vainly  endeavouring  to 
cheer  and  comfort  her.  He  patted  her  shoulder,  and  she 
did  not  stir.  He  murmured  affectionate  words,  and  she 
did  not  answer.  He  stooped,  and  put  his  face  against  hers; 
and  she  did  not  offer  the  slightest  resistance.  Her  face 
was  cold,  her  very  tears  were  cold. 

"Alma  dear,  why  will  you  go  on  crying?"  And  he  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  and  gently  raised  her.  "Alma,  look 
up." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  she  was  limp,  passive; 
motionless,  except  for  a  spasmodic  trembling  that  shook 
her  unceasingly. 

329 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Alma,  speak  to  me.  .  .  .  Alma,  my  pretty  Alma, 
stop  crying." 

Her  cold  wet  face  lay  upon  his  breast;  and  her  hands 
hung  straight  and  loose — like  a  dead  woman's. 

"Speak  to  me,  Alma." 

Then,  when  at  last  she  spoke — in  a  low  moaning  voice, 
— it  was  without  moving,  without  looking  at  him. 

"Lenny,  how  could  you?  Oh,  why  did  you  make  me 
come  here?    Oh,  how  could  you  be  so  merciless?" 

"Alma,  it's  unreasonable  to " 

"Oh,  if  I  had  known  this  would  happen,  I  think  I  should 
have  killed  myself." 

"No,  no.     Nothing  has  happened." 

"Everything  has  happened."  Her  voice  was  dreadful 
to  hear — so  toneless,  so  lifeless,  so  bitterly  sad.  "Once 
you  left  me  crippled,  bleeding  .  .  .  and  I  didn't  die. 
I  struggled  to  my  feet.  I  was  standing  again  on  dry 
ground — not  crawling  in  the  mud.  And  you  found  me. 
.  .  .  And  now  you  have  knocked  me  down  to  the  dirt 
again." 

"Alma,  you  break  my  heart." 

She  went  on,  as  if  talking  to  herself.  "I  had  made  my 
peace  with  my  Church — I  was  safe  with  my  husband — I 
was  learning  to  walk  through  this  cruel  world  with  fixed 
eyes — I  was  beginning  to  see  beyond  the  misery  of  life." 
And  she  moaned  and  shivered.  "O  Mary,  Mother  of  God, 
have  pity  on  me.  .  .  .  O  Mary,  Mother  of  God,  in- 
tercede for  me." 

Presently  he  put  her  in  an  armchair  by  the  fire. 

"There,  you'll  be  more  comfortable.  .  .  .  Warm 
your  dear  hands.  .  .  .  And,  yes,  we'll  have  a  little 
Hght." 

He  turned  on  the  electric  light,  and,  drawing  a  chair  to 
the  hearth,  sat  down  near  her. 

330 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Now,  dear,  we  can  talk  quietly.  And  first  I  must 
implore  you  not  to  distress  yourself  like  this.  Truly  it  is 
unreasonable — quite  without  cause." 

All  at  once  she  gripped  the  arms  of  her  chair  and  sat 
up. 

"I  must  put  on  my  hat.     I  must  go  away," 

"Alma,  darling,  don't  rush  off  in  this  mad  way." 

"Yes— I  must." 

"Think.  You  can't  be  seen  looking  almost  distraught— 
your  dear  face  all  tear-stained — your  pretty  hair  all  any- 
how.    Someone  would  see  you." 

"What  does  it  matter  who  sees  me  now?" 

"Alma,  of  course  it  does." 

"Let  me  go." 

"I  can't  let  you  go — until  you  are  composed — until  we 
have  settled  things.  For  your  own  sake,  dear.  Really  we 
must  talk  quietly." 

Then  for  some  time  they  sat  staring  at  each  other. 

"Alma,"  and  he  spoke  hesitatingly  and  anxiously,  "what 
are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  must  go  home." 

"Yes,  but  you  won't  give  way  to  baseless  fancies?" 

"I  must  think.  ...  I  ought  to  pray — but  I  feel  as 
if  I  should  never  be  able  to  pray  again." 

"Yes,  think  things  out  quietly.  And  be  reasonable.  I 
shall  never  cease  to  love  you.  It  is  our  destiny — and  you 
and  I  are  helpless  in  the  coils  of  fate.  And  believe  what 
I  say:  you  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with — abso- 
lutely nothing.  If  love  was  ever  a  justification,  it  is  in  our 
case — and  it  is  always  a  justification.  We  are  both  un- 
happy.    If  we  can  console  each  other " 

"And  destroy  Gerald's  life?" 

"No,  of  course  not." 

"Betray  him?" 

22  331 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"No — he  will  never  know,  he  will  never  guess,  how 
much  we  still  are  to  each  other." 

Finally  he  judged  that  her  composure  was  restored.  She 
was  "more  like  herself,"  as  he  said  soothingly.  When  he 
came  back  to  the  room,  after  going  out  and  bringing  a 
cab  to  the  conveniently  adjacent  back  entrance,  she  stood 
waiting  for  him.  She  had  put  on  her  hat  and  veil,  and 
she  looked  quite  neat  and  nice — ready  for  anyone  to  see 
her. 

Before  taking  her  downstairs,  he  said  good-night  and 
embraced  her  tenderly.  She  was  passive,  unresisting.  He 
might  kiss  and  caress  her  as  much  as  he  pleased;  but  he 
could  not  extract  any  response,  and  she  would  not  give  him 
definite  promises  for  the  future. 

"I  pin  my  faith  on  you,  Alma.  You'll  see  me  again — 
I  mean,  soon." 

"I  don't  know.     I  tell  you  I  must  think." 

"Yes,  yes,  think  it  out.  Then  write  and  tell  me  where 
we  are  to  meet." 

"Please  let  me  go.     I  must  be  alone — I  must  think." 

"Promise  me  that  it  shall  be  soon." 

"I  can't  promise." 


XXXIV 

FOR  two  days  he  lived  in  the  thought  of  his  great  hap- 
piness. He  had  recovered  her;  the  old  sweet  do- 
minion over  the  woman  he  had  always  loved  was 
once  more  his.  He  could  look  forward  again;  the  time 
of  sad  retrospection  had  finished;  the  future  opened  out  be- 
fore him  bright  and  fair.  And  he  thought  of  Dryden's 
periodic  absences — weeks,  fortnights,  months,  when  the  per- 
fect companionship  would  continue  almost  unintermittently. 
But  at  all  times  they  would  enjoy  a  practical  immunity  of 
risk — in  this  glorious  active  immensity  of  London,  where 
each  has  his  absorbing  concerns  of  toil  or  joy,  where  one 
passes  unseen  among  millions  of  heedless  eyes,  where,  as 
he  often  said,  nobody  cares  a  twopenny  curse  what  games 
his  neighbour  may  be  up  to. 

She  had  not  written  to  him  yet ;  but  he  was  not  afraid. 
Soon,  of  course,  if  she  did  not  write  or  make  some  other 
sort  of  communication,  he  would  grow  anxious ;  but  at  pres- 
ent he  felt  calm,  contented,  full  of  confidence.  He  could 
wait  patiently — or  whenever  necessary  he  could  go  and 
see  her,  and  in  quiet  talk  straighten  out  any  little  tangle. 

Then,  altogether  unexpectedly,  he  received  a  brief  note 
from  Dryden.  Writing  at  his  offices  in  Queen  Victoria 
Street,  Dryden  said: — 

"Dear  Calcraft,  I  particularly  want  to  see  you  about 
something.  Can  you  give  me  a  call  here  any  time  after 
four  and  before  six  to-morrow  or  Tuesday?  Till  then  I 
remain,  Yours  sincerely,  Gerald  Dryden." 

333 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

This  letter  made  Lenny  rather  uneasy.  What  did  it 
mean?  He  could  not  understand  it.  Was  it  business — ■ 
the  offer  of  some  rotten  speculation,  opportunity  of  putting 
money  into  Gerald's  firm,  or  taking  shares  in  some  electrical 
enterprise?  He  had  rather  foolishly  spoken  to  Gerald  of 
the  wretchedly  inadequate  revenue  yielded  by  ordinary  in- 
vestments. Perhaps  that  was  it.  If  so,  No-thank-you  must 
be  the  answer. 

Or  was  it  a  ruse  of  Alma's?  She  had  planned  some- 
thing, and  Gerald  was  unconsciously  to  convey  intelligence 
of  her  meaning?  No,  very  unlikely — because  Alma  had 
a  natural  distaste  for  intrigue,  for  underhand  diplomacy, 
for  anything  except  direct  methods.  Then  a  conjecture 
suffused  him  with  a  warm  and  comfortable  glow.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  Gerald,  summoned  away  to  the  other  side 
of  the  earth,  was  turning  to  him  as  an  old  and  tried  friend 
with  the  intention  of  placing  Alma  more  or  less  in  his  charge 
and  under  his  care  during  this  enforced  and  unusually  pro- 
tracted absence?  Husbands  do  such  extraordinary  things 
that  one  never  can  say  what  they  won't  do.  But  no — this 
was  too  much  to  hope  for. 

Then  came  apprehensive  doubts.  Perhaps  Alma  was 
ill!  This  idea  horrified  him.  Weeks  of  sick-bed,  weeks 
of  convalescence,  eternity  to  be  lived  through  before  he 
could  see  her  again.  Thus  for  a  little  while  his  thoughts 
ran  up  and  down  the  scales  of  hope  and  dread. 

"Oh,  there  you  are,"  said  Dryden.  "Sit  down,  I  won't 
be  a  minute." 

He  was  engaged  with  two  clerks,  winding  up  the  day's 
work;  and  the  visitor  noticed  his  curt  businesslike  tone 
both  to  them  and  to  himself. 

"That'll  do.  Take  all  this  with  you — and  tell  Downes 
J  shan't  want  him  again." 

334 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Lenny  had  seated  himself  on  a  chair  near  the  wall,  facing 
Dryden's  office-table,  and  he  stroked  the  nap  of  his  silk 
hat.  He  was  not  quite  easy  in  his  mind.  He  thought 
that  this  was  the  most  uninteresting  room  he  had  ever 
entered;  and,  as  he  watched  the  two  clerks  leave  it,  he 
felt  an  unreasoning  wish  that  he  might  go  with  them,  so 
that  the  door  would  shut  him  out  instead  of  in.  His 
thoughts  began  to  work  with  astounding  rapidity,  and 
yet  he  could  not  concentrate  them. 

Dryden,  getting  up  from  his  table,  moved  to  the  hearth, 
and  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"Look  here,"  said  Dryden,  and  he  paused. 

"Yes,  Gerald?" 

"It's  about  Alma." 

"Alma!    Not  ill,  Gerald?" 

"No.  Not  ill — but  she  has  been  a  little  worried.  It's 
just  this.  You  mayn't  understand  it,  but  your  attentions 
upset  her — they  just  upset  her." 

Lenny's  thoughts  worked  fast  but  confusedly.  Suddenly, 
on  what  seemed  a  smooth  and  open  path,  rugged  and  ugly 
obstacles  had  arisen.  But  the  obstacles  must  be  surmounted 
or  got  around.  A  crisis — an  important  hour; — all  would 
depend  upon  his  keeping  cool,  using  his  highest  faculties, 
from  moment  to  moment  bringing  to  bear  his  utmost  brain 
power.  Only  he  felt  that  his  heart  was  pumping  too  much 
blood  into  his  brain,  and  the  extra  unnecessary  supply 
created  a  throb  that  lessened  the  acuteness  of  his  perceptions. 
He  could  scarcely  catch  what  Gerald  was  saying  to  him. 

"Yes,  that's  why  I  wanted  to  see  you.  Just  to  tell 
you " 


Gerald  went  on  talking,  quietly  and  firmly.  In  spite 
of  painful  effort,  Lenny  could  not  get  his  thoughts  under 
control.  .  .  .  Someone  must  have  seen  them  together — 
someone  had  advised  Gerald  to  keep  an  eye  on  his  wife — 

335 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Some  unknown  foe  to  himself  or  Alma  had  sent  anonymous 
warnings.  What  a  fiend!  .  .  .  Collected  thought  was 
impossible,  but  instinct  began  to  whisper.  He  must  not 
quarrel  with  Gerald.  Whatever  happened,  he  must  avoid 
the  irreparable  breach  that  would  result  from  a  quarrel. 
He  must  fight  for  fragments,  if  he  could  not  get  all — he 
must  cling  to  shreds  and  patches  of  his  happiness.  And  the 
way  to  succeed  in  this  horrible  interview  would  be  by  pene- 
trating Gerald's  mind,  reading  his  hostile  ideas,  meeting  his 
objections  point  by  point.  Mentally  he  must  put  himself 
in  Gerald's  place,  and  attain  a  clear  view  of  both  sides. 

"Well,"  Gerald  continued,  "that's  what  I  had  to  say — 
and  now  I've  said  it;"  and  he  opened  and  shut  his  mouth 
several  times. 

That  was  an  old  trick  of  his  when  excited.  Lenny  noticed 
another  idiosyncrasy — the  expansion  and  contraction  of  his 
wide  nostrils.  Obviously,  although  Gerald  assumed  this 
hard  businesslike  manner  and  spoke  so  quietly,  he  was  a 
prey  to  considerable  emotion.  Yes,  thought  Lenny,  it  is 
a  pill  to  swallow — to  recognize  that  another  man  bulks 
too  large  in  the  existence  of  your  wife,  and  to  have  to  ask 
him  to  remove  himself. 

"Gerald,'  he  said  slowly,  "this  comes  as  a  great  sur- 
prise to  me." 

"Does  it?" 

"Of  course  it  does.  Alma  and  I  were  pals  almost  be- 
fore you  ever  knew  her — when  you  were  a  boy." 

"Yes,  I'm  quite  aware  that  she  is  older  than  I." 

"And  you  and  I  have  been  pals — for  how  many  years? 
I'm  pretty  well  alone  in  the  world;  I  never  go  into  society 
— and  I  don't  mind  saying  that  the  hours  I  have  spent  in 
your  house  have  been  very  pleasant  to  me." 

"Yes,  but  what  about  the  hours  outside  my  house?" 

"Er,    of    course — whatever   my   own    inclinations — your 
336 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

wish,  Gerald,  must  be  law.     If  you  intimate  to  me  that  in 
your  judgment " 

"Oh,  don't  let's  have  long  words.  Look  here;"  and 
Gerald  flushed.  "When  I  heard  you  were  hanging  on  in 
this  idiotic  way,  I  couldn't  believe  it.  But  I  had  to  believe 
it.  Well,  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do — and  then  I  thought, 
'Dash  it  all,  old  Lenny  Calcraft  and  I  were  friends — real 
friends.'  " 

"Yes,"  said  Lenny  eagerly,  "that's  just  it.  Always  were, 
eh?" 

"Yes,  were.  .  .  .  So  it  seemed  to  me  I  ought  to 
speak  to  you  openly.  It  seemed  to  me  the  frank  thing,  the 
manly  thing,  the  right  thing." 

"It  is,"  said  Lenny.  "Gerald,  I  take  it  as  a  compliment, 
in  a  sense."  And  he  began  to  talk  volubly,  pleading  for  a 
continuance  of  the  amiable  relations  that  had  existed  for 
so  long,  not  only  between  him  and  his  friend,  but  between 
him  and  his  friend's  wife.  "Alma  and  I  are  so  accustomed 
to  one  another — it's  a  friendship  that  nothing  has  ever  really 
interfered  with;"  and  he  urged  that  it  would  appear 
strange,  barely  explicable,  if  in  the  future  there  were  not 
to  be  some  little  friendly  intercourse.  "And,  again,  an 
order  from  you  to  sever  our  relations  altogether  might  de- 
feat your  purpose." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Well,  I  mean  for  her  sake.  You  feel,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  that  she  is  disposed  to  rely  on  me  too  much  for 
company — that  I  have  been  seeing  her  too  often;"  and 
Lenny  looked  at  Gerald  with  a  candidly  engaging  smile. 
"Well — for  argument  accepting  your  view, — wouldn't  it  be 
wiser  to  let  me  efface  myself  gradually — and  not,  as  I  said, 
because  you  have  ordered  me  to  vanish?  Forbidden  fruits 
are  sweet.     Instead  of  thinking  less  of  me,  she  may  think 

more " 

337 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

But  at  this  point  of  the  argument  Dryden  lost  his  tem- 
per, and  spoke  rudely  as  well  as  angrily. 

"Gerald,"  said  Lenny  deprecatingly,  "it  is  evident  that 
somebody  has  been  trying  to  set  you  against  me.  But  are 
you  wise  in  listening  to  any  malicious  talebearer  who ?" 

"Talebearer!    It  was  Alma — Alma  herself  told  me." 

Lenny  had  a  sudden  sensation  of  coldness  and  faintness. 
How  much  had  she  told  him?  Not  much — but  sufficient 
for  her  cruel  purpose.  She  had  asked  her  husband  to  pro- 
tect her.  It  was  the  one  thing  that  Lenny  had  not  dreaded. 
The  death  blow  to  all  hopes.  It  struck  dully  on  his  brain; 
making  him  stupid,  and  clumsy  of  speech. 

"You — you  surprise   me.     .     .     .       greatly  surprise." 

"Anyhow,   you  know  now "  Gerald  flushed  redder, 

and  his  nostrils  were  widely  expanded.  "And  it  only  re- 
mains for  me  to  ask  you  a  question.  Haven't  you  a  single 
feeling  of  a  gentleman,  or  are  you  just  a  dirty  little  cad?" 

"I  don't  think  you've  any  right  to  say  that." 

Gerald  gave  a  snort  of  scornful  laughter.  "Well,  that's 
a  tame  answer,  if  ever  I  heard  one."  And  really  he  seemed 
staggered  by  it:  he  stared  at  Lenny  incredulously.  "Didn't 
you  hear  what  I  said?  I  insulted  you.  Don't  you  mind 
being  insulted?" 

Lenny  moved  his  hat  with  a  vacillating  gesture,  and  spoke 
heavily  and  slowly. 

"Pardon  me  if  I  say — that  this  sort  of  thing  is — er — be- 
neath contempt." 

"Oh,  no.  I'm  not  beneath  contempt,  as  you'll  find  out 
before  you  leave  this  room." 

"I  shall  not  talk  to  you,  if  you  go  on  addressing  me  in  a 
totally  unwarranted  tone." 

Dryden  laughed  again,  harshly  and  scornfully;  but  then 
he  did  change  his  tone.  He  was  still  staring,  and  he  spoke 
in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  express  incredulity,  regret,  pity. 

338 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Good  heavens,  what's  happened  to  you,  Calcraft?  What 
is  it?  Where's  the  man  that  I  used  to  know?  I  liked  you 
—looked  up  to  you — believed  in  you.  Was  I  just  a  young 
ass?  And  were  you  really  and  truly  like  this  always 3 
.  «  .  No — because  Verinder  believed  in  you  too — and 
he's  all  right."  Dryden's  voice  had  become  quite  gentle, 
as  if  old  feelings  and  old  thoughts  were  making  him  un- 
expectedly tender  and  kind.  "And  you  were  all  right, 
Lenny.  Everybody  said  so.  It  couldn't  have  been  collec- 
tive hallucination." 

Lenny  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and,  remaining  silent, 
showed  some  slight  dignity  of  manner. 

"But  never  mind  all  that;"  and  Dryden,  as  he  said 
this,  reverted  to  his  hard  and  implacable  tone.  "We  won't 
trouble  about  what  you  were  then.  It's  a  different  person 
I  have  to  deal  with  now.  If  we  understand  each  other, 
you  can  go — and  I  don't  want  to  see  you  again.  And  Alma 
doesn't  want  to  see  you  either.  Is  that  clear?  Do  you 
understand  it?  On  no  pretence  whatever  are  you  to  pester 
and  molest  Alma  again." 

"Alma  was  fond  of  me,"  said  Lenny  heavily.  "I  can't 
think  that  she  authorized  you  to  give  me  such  a  message 
as  that." 

"Didn't  she?  Perhaps  not;"  and  Dryden  blazed  into 
savage  wrath.  "But  it  is  what  /  tell  you.  She  was  fond 
of  you  once,  was  she?  Very  good — there's  no  accounting 
for  tastes,  and  she  didn't  know  me  in  those  days.  She 
thought  well  of  you — because  other  people  did.  She  was 
deceived,  with  the  rest  of  them.  .  .  .  But  now  she  is 
my  wife — and,  good  God,  when  I  think  of  any  fellow  hesi- 
tating after  I  have  told  him  to  leave  my  wife  alone!"  and, 
as  if  automatically,  he  clenched  his  fists.  "Look  here.  Do 
you  want  me  to  come  down  to  that  club  of  yours  and 
thrash  you  before  the  servants  and  your  friends?" 

339 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Please  remember,  two  can  play  at  that  game." 

"Yes,"  and  Dryden  glared  ferociously,  "would  you  like 
to  begin  the  game  here,  now?" 

But  Lenny  would  not  permit  himself  to  be  dragged  into 
a  brutal  quarrel — from  the  very  beginning  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  as  to  this,  and  dully  and  wearily  he  stood  firm 
to  the  fixed  decision. 

He  was  tired  and  disgusted;  all  hope  had  been  taken 
from  him;  he  might  just  as  well  satisfy  Dryden  by  giving 
him  promises,  and  it  did  not  matter  how  they  were  phrased. 
He  would  never  molest  Alma  again. 

"Molest!"  What  a  hateful  word!  But  every  word  used 
in  this  interview  had  been  hateful. 

He  went  away  through  the  crowded  streets  feeling 
crushed  and  miserable  and  desperately  lonely;  and  as  he 
plodded  along,  vainly  hailing  hansoms  and  taxis  that  were 
occupied  and  therefore  ignored  him,  he  continued  to  think 
about  some  of  the  horrid  words.  "A  dirty  little  cad!" 
Those  were  certainly  the  worst  of  them.  And  what  stung 
him  most  of  all  was  that  adjective  "little."  By  what  frenzy 
of  impudence  had  Dryden  ventured  to  use  it — Dryden,  who 
was  a  considerably  smaller  man  than  himself?  But  he 
understood  that  the  word  had  been  used  on  this  occasion 
in  a  metaphorical  rather  than  a  literal  sense.  Little — mean- 
ing petty  or  mean,  and  not  necessarily  undersized. 

He  was  extraordinarily  civil  and  agreeable  to  people  at 
the  club ;  smiling  at  members  who  were  practically  strangers, 
nodding  and  waving  to  the  merest  acquaintances,  and  beck- 
oning all  whom  he  could  consider  friends.  And  every 
smile,  every  nod,  every  genial  word  that  he  could  thus 
anyhow  attract,  was  a  restorative  medicine  for  his  wounded 
pride.     He  was  respected  here,  at  all  events,  and  he  could 

340 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

never  feel  really  lonely  while  he  had  his  club  to  fall  back 
upon.    He  would  always  be  comfortable  here. 

To-night,  however,  the  coffee-room  dinner  seemed  vilely 
bad.  The  saddle  of  mutton  left  a  nasty  taste  in  his  mouth ; 
the  wine  was  thin  and  cold  and  flavourless;  the  cheese  bis- 
cuits nearly  choked  one.  The  scene  in  that  uninteresting 
office  had  shaken  him  greatly — infinitely  more  than  he 
guessed.  Henceforth,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  there 
would  be  a  psychical  battlefield  inside  him — a  conflict  must 
occur  between  the  man  that  Dryden  thought  he  was  and 
the  man  that  he  still  wished  to  believe  himself;  each  might 
destroy  the  other;  and  after  the  fight  a  new  self  might  arise 
and  hold  the  ground.  But  by  nothing  short  of  a  miracle 
could  the  confident,  unvilified,  unthreatened  self  of  this 
morning  be  reinstated. 

Sipping  muddy  coffee  and  an  impotent  watery  liqueur, 
he  thought  of  young  Dryden.  What  a  brute  he  had  de- 
veloped into!  What  an  utter  brute!  And  Alma?  There 
was  something  treacherous  in  her  turning  Gerald  loose 
against  him.  A  betrayal.  Unlike  her.  But,  say  what  you 
will,  that  Romish  superstition  has  a  deteriorating  influence. 
Alma  had  deteriorated. 

Gradually  the  dead  weight  of  the  catastrophe  descended 
upon  him.  He  had  lost  her — irrevocably.  She  was  gone 
from  him  for  ever.  By  this  fatal  stroke  she  had  cut  the 
old  bond,  the  chain  that  linked  them  together.  A  tre- 
mendous effort  was  needed  to  break  his  power  over  her — 
but  she  had  fatally  succeeded. 

And  just  when  he  was  counting  on  peace,  just  when  he 
felt  that  the  comfort  of  his  future  was  assured!  Alma 
not  regained:  Alma  lost.  Gradually  the  pain  of  it  took 
possession  of  him. 

341 


IN   COTTON  WOOL 

Dashed  hope,  sick  regret,  thwarted  desire,  smarting  pride 
—these  were  what  he  lay  down  with  at  night,  what  he 
got  up  with  of  a  morning.  And  day  after  day  the  same 
thing — no,  not  the  same  thing;  because  the  pain  was  always 
increasing.  Terribly  as  he  suffered,  he  foretold  that  he 
must  suffer  more. 

Alma — his  lost  Alma!  In  imagination  he  could  hear  her 
voice,  feel  the  touch  of  her  lips,  see  her  smiles  and  her 
tears.  The  sight  of  his  rooms  at  the  hotel  stabbed  and 
lacerated  him — he  sent  Mr.  Jackson  to  pay  the  bill  and 
remove  his  things  for  him.  He  wished  that  the  huge  build- 
ing could  be  swallowed  by  an  earthquake,  that  it  would 
tumble  down  of  its  own  accord,  or  be  burned  to  the  ground 
and  swept  away  in  dust  and  ashes,  so  that  he  might  never 
have  to  see  it  again.  At  Albert  Street  Mrs.  Jackson  ob- 
served his  strange  depression,  tried  to  cheer  him  with  break- 
fast dainties,  and  urged  him  to  dress  himself  and  go  out 
and  enjoy  the  gay  spring  mornings.  But  he  had  no  heart 
to  go  out  in  the  sunshine.  He  sat  for  most  of  the  day 
poring  over  relics  at  the  bottom  of  drawers,  or  rummaging 
for  them  in  trunks  and  tin  cases — her  letters  and  her  photo- 
graphs. Yes,  here's  another  photograph,  faded,  spotted, 
brown  with  age — a  narrow  childlike  face,  a  frank  but  shy 
smile,  a  crown  of  hair  in  the  shadow  of  a  large  hat — Alma, 
his  sweetly  cruel,  his  divinely  kind,  his  own  lost  Alma. 
Staring  dully  at  the  picture  that  lay  faded  and  cold  in  his 
hand,  he  thought  of  the  reality,  glowing  and  warm,  in 
Dryden's  arms ;  and  the  pain  of  it  was  like  a  malignant  can- 
cer of  the  mind,  gnawing,  dragging,  tearing,  with  teeth 
of  fire. 

At  dusk  he  used  to  go  out,  and  walk  and  think.  He 
was  not  a  man  who  for  any  length  of  time  could  safely 
deprive  himself  of  feminine  companionship — this  old  thought 
often  mingled  with  the  new  ones.     Walking  in  the  streets, 

34,2 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

he  saw  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  women  whose  com- 
pany he  could  procure,  with  a  little  labour.  He  had  money. 
He  could  buy  in  a  market  where  prices  run  high  but  the 
goods  are  unexceptionable.  He  thought  of  charming  lonely 
girls  earning  their  own  living,  really  ladies,  yearning  for 
the  society  of  a  discreet  male  friend,  who  would  pass  im- 
perceptibly from  the  role  of  a  friend  into  that  of  a  pro- 
tector. If  he  could  find  one  of  these,  she  might  bring 
back  his  peace.  But  the  labour  that  would  be  required  in 
the  wooing,  the  courtship,  the  seduction — call  it  what  you 
please — appalled  him.  He  thought  of  easier  chances;  girls 
not  so  well-born,  less  straight-laced, — girls  adrift  after  the 
departure  of  Numbers  One  and  Two,  and  ripe  for  a  bargain 
with  Number  Three.  Or  these  shop  girls — flitting  in  cov- 
eys, in  flocks  and  packs,  through  the  dusk  of  St.  James's 
Park:  birds  released  from  Bond  Street  cages.  Very  nice, 
many  of  them.  He  stared  at  dozens,  hundreds.  He  ad- 
mired the  prevailing  mode  of  their  costume — close  skirt, 
buckled  shoes,  coloured  stockings, — all  looking  alike.  Many 
were  distinctly  sympathetic — returning  his  stare,  then  low- 
ering their  eyes  or  averting  their  heads,  provocatively,  with 
mock  demureness  shamelessly  inviting  overtures.  He  spoke 
to  one  of  them,  walked  by  her  side  in  the  Buckingham 
Palace  Road,  even  booked  her  address.  She  seemed  ready, 
only  too  ready,  to  open  a  friendship  with  this  dignified, 
grandly  attired,  sad-visaged  stranger — but  he  did  not  pursue 
the  business.  It  was  no  use.  They  were  all  useless  to  him. 
Alma — and  nobody  else. 

It  had  become  an  intolerable  torment  by  night  and  by 
day.  He  sat  in  his  rooms,  he  mooned  about  the  streets, 
pitying  himself.  Vague  apprehensions  as  to  the  future  made 
him  tremble.  His  health!  What  was  wrong  with  him? 
Gerald  had  asked  the  question.     There  must  be  something 

343 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

not  quite  right  when  even  a  dull  lout  like  that  instantly 
detected  symptoms  of  an  alarming  nature.  Wicked  to 
throw  him  back  on  himself!  He  needed  a  constant  watch- 
ful companion — vast  and  as  yet  impalpable  dangers  were 
looming  ahead  of  him  in  the  lonely  darkness. 

But  she  would  have  saved  him.  And  he  remembered 
what  she  had  said — so  prettily — about  the  end  of  their 
lives:  together,  under  one  roof,  when  the  darkness  began 
to  close  in.  He  ought  to  have  married  her.  She  would 
have  given  him  happiness,  peace,  safety — he  saw  it  now 
quite  clearly;  and  with  equal  clearness  he  saw  how  despic- 
able it  was  not  to  marry  her.  A  mistake — a  hideous  mis- 
take. And  he  had  been  warned:  fate,  shadowing  forth 
the  peril,  had  tried  to  put  him  on  his  guard.  That  lifeboat 
rescue  was  the  warning.  He  should  not  have  allowed  Dry- 
den  a  second  time  to  do  the  thing  that  he  ought  to  have 
done  himself. 

Not  a  single  hope,  except  a  sinister  one.  Only  the 
blackest  thoughts  could  show  a  gleam  behind  them.  If 
Gerald  would  die,  Lenny  would  marry  his  widow.  He 
might  be  drowned  at  sea,  go  down  with  a  South  American 
liner;  he  might  catch  a  fever,  or  be  smashed  in  a  railway 
accident — he  was  always  running  risks. 

But  no,  he  would  not  die.  Not  he!  The  brute — the 
odious  vulgar  brute.     Brute — triple  brute. 


XXXV 

LENNY  was  two  years  older;  and  the  light  falling 
from  one  of  the  tall  windows  of  the  club  coffee-room 
showed  bare  streaks  on  the  top  of  his  head,  over 
which  long  wisps  of  hair  had  been  ineffectually  brushed 
and  plastered.  His  cheeks  were  less  firm  than  they  used  to 
be;  indeed  they  seemed  rather  flabby  in  texture  and  slightly 
pendulous  in  shape;  the  flesh  immediately  beneath  his  eyes 
was  puffy  wherever  it  was  not  wrinkled;  and  he  had  ac- 
quired a  trick  of  blinking  his  eyes  before  speaking.  Other- 
wise he  appeared  as  splendid  and  imposing  as  ever — fault- 
lessly dressed,  with  braided  edges  to  his  coat,  well-tied  neck- 
cloth, black  and  white  checked  trousers,  and  thick-soled  pat- 
ent leather  boots. 

"No,  thank  you,  Henderson,"  and  Lenny  blinked  and 
smiled.  "I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  mentioning  it — 
but  I  really  mustn't." 

He  had  nearly  finished  luncheon,  and  the  head  waiter 
was  tempting  him  to  try  a  Strasburg  pie  which  had  come 
in  that  morning.  Though  some  of  the  new  members  might 
look  coldly  at  him,  the  old  servants  loved  him.  He  gave 
so  liberally  to  their  Christmas  fund ;  and  he  spoke  so  kindly, 
causing  them  trouble,  but  always  thanking  them. 

"May  I  bring  it,  sir?" 

Lenny  consented.  He  felt  that  he  had  eaten  quite 
enough  already,  and  he  did  not  much  like  the  reputation 
of  these  foreign  dainties;  but  when  the  pie  was  set  before 
him  it  entirely  fascinated  him. 

345 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Thank  you,  Henderson." 

A  newish  member — an  unduly  familiar  young  man — 
came  sauntering  down  the  room,  and  paused  in  front  of 
Lenny's  table. 

"That's  right,  Calcraft,"  said  the  young  man;  and 
he  grinned  somewhat  impudently.  "I  see  you're  hard  at  it 
— like  so  many  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  one  meets  here, — 
digging  your  grave  with  your  teeth!" 

Lenny  blinked  and  flushed.  "I  believe  that  this  is  not 
the  most  digestible  thing  in  the  world;  but  the  very  small 
quantity  I  have  eaten  of  it  is  not  likely  to  give  me  annoy- 
ance." 

The  young  man  laughed,  and  passed  on. 

Lenny,  though  he  had  spoken  courteously,  was  angry 
and  disgusted.  Why  weren't  the  committee  more  careful? 
Why  had  they  flooded  the  club  with  these  young  bounders? 
"Digging  your  grave  with  your  teeth!"  He  thought  it 
the  most  horrible  expression  he  had  ever  heard.  He  could 
not  forget  it.  Three  times  before  bedtime  it  recurred  to 
his  memory. 

He  was  not  quite  so  fond  of  his  club  as  he  had  once 
been.  Already,  in  such  a  little  time,  old  faces  were  disap- 
pearing, and  the  strange  faces  all  seemed  unattractive. 
Often,  after  coming  home  to  dress  for  dinner,  he  did  not 
go  out  again.  He  asked  Mrs.  Jackson  to  give  him  some- 
thing light  and  appetizing  which  he  could  supplement  with 
a  snack  later  if  necessary,  and  he  spent  the  evening  in  his 
own  rooms.  He  used  to  keep  Jackson  talking  when  he 
had  removed  the  dinner-things,  and  sometimes  got  him 
to  return  afterwards  for  more  talk.  Jackson  was  a  politician, 
and,  like  so  many  other  politicians,  a  little  too  partial  to 
the  sound  of  his  own  voice.  But  in  spite  of  this  failing, 
he  proved  better  company  than  Lenny  could  procure  at 
the  club.     In  fact  recently  Lenny  had  clung  to  him — es- 

346 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

pecially  he  seemed  loath  to  part  with  Jackson  the  last  thing 
at  night.  When  Jackson  said  "Will  you  want  anything 
more,  sir?"  Lenny  would  talk  volubly,  introduce  fresh 
topics,  and  endeavour  to  draw  Jackson  into  argumentative 
disputes.  The  sound  of  Jackson's  voice  might  not  be  music 
but  it  was  so  much  pleasanter  than  blank  silence. 

He  listened  with  regret  to  Jackson's  footsteps  going  up- 
stairs. When  he  went  into  his  bedroom,  he  turned  on  all 
the  lights,  stood  still  and  listened.  He  felt  vaguely  uncom- 
fortable— almost  afraid.  But  afraid  of  what?  Nothing. 
Afraid  of  being  afraid — as  though  something  inexpressibly 
painful  were  coming  in  the  night. 

And  one  night  it  came — sudden  overwhelming  terror. 
Without  cause,  without  reason,  he  lay  quaking  and  perspir- 
ing. For  a  little  while  the  terror  completely  paralysed 
thought;  and  when  it  lessened  and  gradually  remitted  alto- 
gether, connected  thought  seemed  impossible.  Lenny  could 
not  think  and  he  could  not  sleep. 

And  night  after  night  the  same  sort  of  thing  occurred. 
Sometimes  it  did  not  amount  to  very  much.  In  a  half 
dreaming  state  he  was  confronted  with  unusually  vivid  pic- 
tures of  everything  that  he  did  not  wish  either  to  imagine 
or  remember:  the  South  African  veldt;  troops  marching 
over  mountains  and  through  ravines;  a  storm  at  sea;  a  mast- 
less  brig  driven  upon  a  shore,  with  the  lights  from  com- 
fortable houses  faintly  piercing  the  darkness.  Then  he 
had  the  fancy  that  he  was  being  dragged  forward  and  made 
the  central  figure  of  these  scenes.  He  was  a  person  quite 
helpless,  surrounded  by  monstrous  perils.  The  morning 
light  dissipated  everything.  But  the  worst  of  the  whole 
business  was  the  havoc  to  one's  nerves  caused  by  sleepless- 
ness. 

During  the  daytime  he  argued  with  himself.  How  could 
he  be  so  silly  and  undignified?  In  the  sunshine  there  wai 
28  347 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

not  a  trace  of  all  this  nocturnal  distress.  But  was  that 
quite  true  ?  No.  The  thing  was  there,  latent  if  not  active ; 
by  a  thought  he  could  arouse  a  qualm.  He  tested  himself. 
Suppose  he  happened  to  be  walking  across  Westminster 
Bridge,  and  a  woman  clambered  upon  the  parapet  and 
jumped  over — what  would  he  do?  He  ought  to  dive  in — 
but  the  mere  notion  of  the  dizzy  height,  the  awful  drop, 
the  darkly  running  stream,  made  him  supremely  uncom- 
fortable. 

These  sensations  surprised  and  mortified  him.  They 
seemed  to  indicate  something  strangely  amiss.  He  knew 
that  he  had  started  life  with  fully  the  average  share  of 
pluck.  And  he  thought  of  his  youth — of  how  he  liked  a 
row;  of  how  he  enjoyed  those  riots  at  Cleckhampton,  when 
his  militia  had  all  they  could  do  to  hold  the  mob  in  check; 
of  how  he  laughed  when  the  tiles  came  rattling  down, 
and  the  air  grew  thick  with  stones.  And  after  that  period, 
when  he  saw  a  crowd  in  the  street,  he  always  bustled  to- 
wards it,  feeling  stimulated  by  the  idea  of  trouble — yes, 
even  of  danger.  If  there  was  to  be  wrangling,  violent  alter- 
cation, finally  a  general  melee  of  excited  spectators,  he  felt 
that  he  must  take  part;  he  pushed  his  way  through  outer 
rings,  meaning  to  pacify  the  strong  or  support  the  weak, 
anyhow  to  assert  himself  by  getting  into  the  thick  of  it. 
But  now  he  would  not  do  that. 

He  thought  of  his  riding — the  joy  of  a  horse  that 
took  hold;  the  search  for  animals  that  were  really  big 
bold  fencers;  a  point-to-point  race  when  he  distinguished 
himself  on  a  brute  called  "Touch  and  Go,"  a  sketchy 
performer  that  possessed  the  one  virtue  of  speed.  And 
he  tested  himself  again.  He  could  not  do  that  now.  He 
remembered  how  of  late  years,  hacking  in  the  Row,  he 
did  not  by  any  means  wish  that  his  gentle  hirelings  should 
take  hold.     He  asked  many  questions  at  the  livery  stables 

348 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

in  Park  Lane  before  engaging  his  hacks.  He  wanted 
something  with  good  manners,  and  was  most  particular 
that  it  should  not  be  larky  in  traffic.  But  when  he  got 
out  among  the  motor-buses,  the  diabolical  engines  with 
trains  of  trucks,  and  all  the  other  road  nuisances  that 
are  now  permitted  to  surround  the  Park  with  a  belt  of 
peril,  his  hands  failed  him.  They  became  weak  and 
vacillating,  or  he  used  them  too  much  and  reinforced  them 
unnecessarily  with  his  legs.  He  could  not  believe  that 
any  horse  ever  foaled  would  face  what  was  slowly  grinding 
and  crashing  towards  him — in  point  of  fact  he  shied,  and 
not  the  horse.  Yet  he  could  ride.  If  he  could  do  anything, 
he  could  do  that.     Everybody  had  admitted  it. 

He  had  lost  his  nerve;  and  he  mused  about  it.  Inex- 
plicable. One  could  understand  how  a  man  who  hunts 
regularly  comes  to  lose  his  nerve.  After  several  severe 
tosses  he  begins  to  calculate  risks;  large  fences  look  larger; 
the  memory  of  disaster  takes  the  edge  off  his  keenness.  But 
how  can  a  man  who  does  not  hunt  at  all  lose  his  nerve — 
how  can  it  be  possible  that,  sitting  in  your  armchair,  and 
never  being  tossed  by  it,  you  yet  come  to  dread  a  fall  from 
your  horse  ? 

But  all  this  philosophy  by  day  did  not  banish  the 
trouble  of  his  nights.  The  worry  continued.  Then  he 
made  a  startling  and  most  alarming  discovery.  He  had 
lost  weight.  He  ought  to  weigh  something  between 
thirteen  and  a  half  and  fourteen  stone.  He  had  always 
kept  about  that  mark.  Now,  suddenly,  six  pounds  had 
slipped  away  from  him.  Good  Heavens!  One  of  those 
rapid  wasting  diseases  that  attack  a  man  of  middle  age 
and  polish  him  off  before  he  can  make  his  will  or  ask  his* 
friends  to  rally  round  him  for  his  last  days!  He  dashed 
out  of  the  club,  bellowed  for  a  cab,  and,  driving  straight 
to  Dr.  Ashford  in  Brook  Street,  demanded  an  immediate 

349 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

interview.  He  was  greatly  surprised  that  the  doctor  did 
not  remember  him,  and  he  blinked  excessively  while  explain- 
ing who  he  was. 

"I  saw  you  some  time  ago.  You  advised  me  to  take  care 
of  myself." 

"And  have  you  done  so?" 

"On  my  honour,  I  have,"  said  Lenny. 

Dr.  Ashford  smiled  at  his  earnestness.  "Well,  then,  Mr. 
— er — Calcraft — let  me  see.  Let  me  look  up  your  case, 
since  you  say  that  I  saw  you  before." 

And  searching  among  note-books,  he  at  last  found  the 
volume  and  page  that  he  wanted. 

"Bless  me !  Fourteen  years  ago.  And  it  was  your  nerves 
then?  Yes,  you  told  me  that  you  had  worn  yourself  out 
by  nursing  your  father.  You  were  completely  overwrought." 
And  the  doctor  looked  up.  "But  your  father  is  dead  now, 
I  suppose." 

"Oh,  yes.     He  died  ten  years  ago." 

"But  you  are  overwrought  again.  Well,  now,  tell  me 
all  about  it." 

Dr.  Ashford  treated  the  matter  lightly.  He  said  that 
Lenny  was  wearing  very  well.  He  said  that  he  looked  as 
strong  as  an  ox;  but  unquestionably  there  must  have  been 
of  late  an  excessive  expenditure  of  nerve  force.  And  the 
cure  for  that  is  a  quiet  and  healthy  life.  Mr.  Calcraft 
should  go  on  taking  care  of  himself.  He  must  not  racket 
about,  or  play  fast  and  loose  with  his  strength. 

"Keep  quiet — at  any  rate,  for  a  time.  That  is  the  great 
thing.  As  to  the  loss  of  weight,  it's  nothing."  And  Dr. 
Ashford  laughed.  "You  see,  you  are  rich  enough  in  that 
respect  to  lose  a  few  pounds  without  being  perceptibly  the 
poorer." 

Lenny  went  away  discontented.  He  felt  pleased  at 
first,  but  on  reflection  he  considered  Dr.  Ashford  an  ass. 

350 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Ashford  had  not  diagnosed  the  fine  and  delicate  character 
of  his  nervous  organization,  so  highly  strung,  so  susceptible 
to  slightest  influences,  so  complex.  He  had  addressed  all 
his  attention  to  matter,  when  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  the 
spirit  that  wanted  healing.  In  regard  to  the  decreased 
weight,  what  he  said  was  the  sort  of  rubbish  with  which 
untouched  friends  console  a  man  who  has  lost  money. 
Suppose  you  begin  to  lose  your  money;  only  a  little  at 
first,  but  then  more  and  more.  The  thing  goes  dribbling  on 
until  it  can  sap  away  a  handsome  fortune. 

However,  he  thought  better  of  Ashford's  skill  after  a 
week.  Ashford  had  mysteriously  made  him  all  right  again. 
No  more  trouble  at  night.  This  his  first  attack  of  night 
terrors  had  passed  over;  he  was  able  to  sleep.  Neverthe- 
less, he  weighed  himself  at  frequent  intervals,  carefully  en- 
tering results  in  the  volume  that  lay  opposite  the  machine 
at  the  club. 

When  he  had  established  himself  on  the  red  velvet  seat 
of  the  machine,  his  face  used  to  become  excessively  grave. 
He  looked  down  at  the  little  circular  tray  dependent 
from  the  beam,  at  the  incised  weights  that  fitted  so  neatly 
into  the  tray,  and  at  the  brass  needle,  of  which  the  least 
movement  had  such  portentous  interest.  Then,  lifting 
his  feet  from  the  marble  pavement,  and  making  quite  sure 
that  the  skirts  of  his  jacket  or  coat  were  not  obtaining  sup- 
port, he  carefully  completed  his  delicate  task. 

One  day  a  talkative,  intrusive  member  bothered  Lenny 
while  he  weighed  himself  at  the  luncheon  hour.  He  in- 
tended to  weigh  himself  again  after  luncheon,  and  the 
second  result  would  be  the  one  that  he  would  enter  in 
the  book.  But  this  inopportune  chatterbox  perplexed 
him;  he  picked  up  the  little  weights  with  insufficient  care 
— the  ten-stone  weight,  the  two-stone  weight,  and  then 
would  come  the  adjustment  of  the  slot  on  the  graduated 

351 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

beam.  The  man  went  ort  talking,  telling  some  stupid 
anecdote,  and  cackling  at  his  own  jokes.  Lenny  had  put 
the  three-stone  weight  instead  of  the  two-stone  weight, 
and  thus  the  scale  would  begirt  to  mark  with  thirteen 
stone  to  its  credit.  When  he  looked  for  the  result,  he 
saw  that  the  beam  was  dowri,  not  up.  He  blinked,  and 
then  looked  at  it  again  with  a  sick  horror.  Great  Heavens ! 
Had  he  lost  a  stone  in  the  last  three  days?  He  could  not 
now  turn  the  scale  at  twelve  stone.  He  got  up  slowly, 
almost  tottering. 

Then  he  discovered  the  mistake,  and  with  a  joyous 
cry  flumped  himself  down  on  the  velvet  seat  again.  Truly 
he  crashed  into  the  seat  like  a  sack  of  coals  falling  from 
a  crane.  The  beam  kicked;  the  brass  needle  snapped  off 
short:  he  had  broken  the  machine. 

There  was  a  cackling  laugh;  and  genial  idle  members 
gathered  round. 

"What  is  it?    Eh,  what?" 

"Calcraft,  if  you  please,  trying  to  weigh  himself !"  And 
the  talkative  idiot  laughed  prodigiously. 

"Trying  to  weigh  himself,  and  smashed  the  machine. 
.  .  .  You  know,  old  boy,  this  is  a  sensitive  instrument — 
not  intended  for  giants." 

Lenny  could  hear  the  laughter  and  the  chaff.  He  was 
feeling  an  exquisite  sense  of  relief.  Only  a  ridiculous 
mistake.    No  more  weight  lost  since  his  visit  to  Dr.  Ashford. 


XXXVI 

LENNY  was  another  year  older. 
He  blinked  his  eyes  still,  and  he  had  picked  up 
another  trick.  When  listening  to  conversation,  he 
frequently  retracted  his  lower  jaw;  and  this  gave  a  gaping 
and  vacant  expression  to  his  whole  face,  as  of  a  person  who 
cannot  fix  his  attention.  It  was  just  a  nervous  little  trick, 
of  which  he  himself  was  aware,  and  he  knew  that  it  pro- 
duced a  momentary  disfigurement  of  his  normally  imposing 
aspect.  He  felt,  however,  that  Dr.  Ashford  had  been  en- 
tirely correct — there  was  nothing  to  worry  about. 

He  had  never  recovered  those  pounds  avoirdupois,  and 
probably  had  lost  a  few  more;  but  he  did  not  know  for 
certain,  because  soon  after  defraying  the  cost  of  repairs  to 
the  broken  machine  he  ceased  to  use  it.  Weighing  oneself 
was  too  agitating  and  disappointing,  if  results  failed  to 
realize  one's  hopes. 

During  all  this  year  he  had  not  once  been  out  of  London. 
He  made  excuses  when  Mrs.  Jackson  begged  him  to  take  a 
summer  holiday  or  to  grant  her  an  opportunity  for  spring 
cleaning. 

Rarely,  if  ever,  did  he  spend  an  evening  at  the  club 
nowadays.  The  club,  like  so  many  other  things  which 
once  were  full  of  delight,  could  now  no  longer  charm 
him  with  its  grandeur,  luxury,  and  varied  amenities.  When 
occasionally  he  dined  there,  it  was  in  morning  dress,  and 
quite  early;  and  after  dinner  he  came  straight  home  for 
his  coffee   and  cigar. 

353 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

He  had  become  greatly  dependent  on  Mr.  Jackson  for 
society.  At  first  Jackson  used  to  hover  near  the  door 
while  they  talked,  merely  changing  his  attitude  from  that 
of  Attention  to  Stand  at  Ease;  but  then  he  was  invited 
to  sit  down  and  rest  his  legs,  and  now  Lenny  regularly 
begged  him  to  bring  his  chair  to  the  table,  to  light  a  cigar, 
to  have  a  whisky  and  soda.  And  Jackson,  accepting  such 
condescension  in  a  proper  spirit,  never  encroached;  next 
morning  when  he  brought  Lenny's  neatly  brushed  and 
folded  clothes  into  the  bedroom,  he  was  the  silent  respect- 
ful valet  with  whom  the  master  had  never  exchanged  six 
words  that  did  not  closely  relate  to  his  service.  As  Lenny 
knew — and  as  he  said  himself, — he  had  been  trained  in  a 
good  school. 

The  aristocracy  had  done  much  for  Jackson,  and  he 
was  becomingly  grateful;  indeed  a  veneration  for  the  old 
established  titled  classes  permeated  all  his  thoughts,  and 
perhaps  formed  the  basis  of  his  political  faith. 

"What  drives  me  almost  to  desp'ration,  sir,"  said  Jack- 
son, "when  I  read  the  goings-on  of  this  Government,  is 
their  wilful  setting  of  class  against  class." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  Jackson.  .  .  .  Will  you 
kindly  fetch  the  ash-tray  from  the  mantelpiece?" 

"Yes,  sir.  .  .  .  According  to  what  they  allow  these 
Socialists  to  teach  a  lot  of  pore  ignorant  men,  the  upper 
classes  are  to  be  pillaged  as  so  many  enemies  of  the  people. 
And  what  does  such  jumped-up  spouters  really  know  of  our 
landed  noblemen?  Why,  they  don't  move  in  such  circles. 
I  know  this  very  well — I  never  met  one  of  the  lot  as  an 
invited  guest  to  the  house  in  any  situation  I  was  ever  in." 

Jackson  treated  the  matter  with  well-bred  composure,  but 
nevertheless  was  inordinately  gratified,  when  a  bachelor 
peer  came  to  Albert  Street  and  installed  himself  on  the 
second  floor  over  Lenny's  head. 

354 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"His  lordship  is  not  wealthy,  far  from  it,  sir — or  we 
could  hardly  expect  to  have  him  here;  but  it's  a  grand 
fam'ly,  sir." 

Mrs.  Jackson  always  spoke  of  her  new  lodger  as  "the 
Earl."  She  told  Lenny  that  the  earl  was  "shaking  down 
very  nice";  he  intended  to  go  to  his  country  seat  for  the 
hunting  or  the  shooting,  but  he  would  come  back  again, 
and  he  would  probably  retain  the  rooms  all  through  the 
London  season. 

He  was  a  jovial-looking  little  man,  with  a  round  clean- 
shaven face  and  a  cheery  open-air  voice.  He  gave  one 
perhaps  rather  too  many  opportunities  of  measuring  his 
vocal  power.  Lenny  lying  snug  in  bed  used  to  hear  him 
on  the  landing  upstairs,  as  he  passed  into  the  very  inferior 
second  floor  bathroom,  doing  "hound-talk,"  and  facetiously 
cheering  himself  on  to  face  the  cold  water.  "Forrard — 
forrard,  away — o!  Get  away  on  to  him,  Loiterer.  What 
yer  hanging  about  there,  Loiterer?"  And  he  imitated  the 
crack  of  a  whip  and  the  sound  of  a  horn.  It  made  Lenny 
smile;  but  it  was  sometimes  a  little  disturbing.  However, 
one  did  not  care  to  complain,  because  the  earl  seemed  to 
be  a  friendly  amiable  creature. 

When  Lenny  met  him  on  the  stairs  he  always  said 
"Mornin',  Calcraft";  and  if  the  weather  was  wet,  he 
added  "Nice  day  for  tadpoles."  If  the  weather  was  fine, 
he  said  "Mornin',  Calcraft.  This'll  worry  the  wag-tails, 
won't  it?" 

And  some  further  civilities  passed  between  them.  The 
second  floor  on  various  occasions  sent  the  first  floor  a  brace 
of  pheasants,  a  couple  of  woodcock,  and  some  hot-house 
fruit. 

"His  lordship's  compliments,"  said  Jackson,  with  unction, 
"and  he  begs  you  to  accept  of  these  birds.  He  has  more 
than  sufficient  for  his  own  use." 

355 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Lenny,  of  course,  returned  compliments,  together  with 
thanks.  For  a  little  while  it  tickled  his  vanity  to  think 
that  the  earl  might  develop  into  a  pleasant  crony  for  even- 
ing smokes  and  talks;  and  to  this  end  he  conveyed  through 
Jackson  some  sort  of  intimation  that  his  lordship,  if  he 
cared  to  drop  in,  would  be  welcome. 

The  earl  for  a  long  time  ignored  this  hint;  but  then  one 
night  very  late  he  honoured  Lenny  with  a  visit.  He  had 
been  out  to  dinner;  and  he  came  upstairs  singing  a  popu- 
lar song,  stumbled  somewhere  on  the  mat  near  Lenny's 
door,  and  presently  banged  its  panels. 

'Tut  my  foot  in  a  rabbit-hole,"  said  his  lordship,  laugh- 
ing gaily.  "How  are  you,  old  boy?  What  price  a  whisky 
and  soda?  But,  mind  you,  if  I  say  yes,  it  must  be  a  very 
small  one." 

The  visitor  sat  down,  and  Lenny  gave  him  a  drink. 

"Thank  ye.  Here's  to  Foxhunting  and  the  Ladies!"  And 
his  lordship  glanced  round  the  room,  as  if  taking  stock  of 
all  its  comforts  and  ornaments.  "So  this  is  your  little  crib. 
But  I  say,  old  boy,  you  have  fugged  yourself  in  till  the  air 
is  beginning  to  hum." 

"Is  it  too  warm  for  you?  Shall  I  open  one  of  the  win- 
dows?" 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me." 

It  was  painfully  clear  that  the  visitor  had  been  dining,  in 
the  worst  sense  of  the  word;  and  for  half  an  hour  Lenny 
found  him  a  most  objectionable  companion.  He  was  far 
too  familiar — he  adopted  a  careless  patronizing  tone. 

"Jackson  told  me  to  look  in — Jackson  goes  on  saying 
you  wished  it.  So  here  I  am.  But  I  never  saw  the  point 
of  it,  and  I  don't  see  it  now.  I'm  all  right  up  there,  and 
you're  all  right  down  here.  See  what  I  mean?  Live  and 
let  live — that's  my  motto.  Chacun  a  son  gout.  Never  lift 
hounds  till  they're  really  at  fault.     .     .     .     But  I  like  to 

356 


in  cotton  wool 

do  the  polite  to  everybody.  And  of  course  I'm  glad  for 
you  to  have  your  share  in  anything  that's  goin'.  Neigh- 
bours, eh;  Share  and  share  alike — so  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned. I  said  so  to  Jackson.  .  .  .  Look  here,  Calcry 
- — old  boy — I've  got  some  brandy  upstairs— real  fine  genu- 
ine stufi;  and  if  you  catch  the  collywobbles  through  sitting 
in  a  draught,  you  send  up  for  some  of  it.  Just  you  ask 
for  anything  you  want;  and  if  I've  got  it,  it's  yours.  I 
can't  say  more."     .     .     . 

And  thus  the  visitor  maundered  on  until  he  took  his 
leave. 

After  this  there  was  a  coldness  in  the  demeanour  of 
the  first  floor  towards  the  second  floor.  Lenny  wanted  no 
more  visits  from  the  earl.  A  pity!  Because  the  earl,  being 
a  late  bird,  might  have  proved  useful  to  prolong  one's  even- 
ing when  Jackson  had  gone  to  bed. 

With  the  utmost  respect,  Jackson  had  been  obliged  to 
make  a  bargain  in  regard  to  these  evening  conversations. 

"The  fact  is,  sir,  it  does  not  suit  me  to  be  kep'  up. 
Mrs.  Jackson  she  makes  remarks  about  my  smoking  cigars, 
and  will  have  it  that  I  indulge  too  free  other  ways." 

"Oh,  but  that's  most  unjust.  I'll  tell  her  you  never 
exceed." 

"Really,  sir,  if  you'll  allow  me,  I  think  I'd  better  make 
the  bargain  which  she  has  proposed — that  is,  to  leave  you 
at  eleven  o'clock  sharp." 

And  Lenny  was  compelled  to  adhere  to  Mrs.  Jackson's 
vexatious  rule;  although  he  often  looked  at  the  clock  re- 
gretfully as  the  hands  crept  towards  the  appointed  hour. 

It  was  not  that  Jackson  was  good  company:  he  was  the 
only  company  available.  After  dinner,  when  he  had  cleared 
the  table,  he  put  the  evening  newspaper  over  the  arm  of 
Lenny's  chair,  and  the  time  seemed  long  until  he  returned. 
Never  by  any  chance  did  the  evening  newspaper  seem  worth 

35T 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

reading.  Night  after  night,  week  after  week,  absolutely 
nothing  of  interest  in  it. 

Sometimes  Jackson  had  social  engagements — an  evening 
out,  going  to  the  play  with  Mrs.  Jackson,  what  not  frivo- 
lous and  annoying.  It  was  dreadful  then — only  Adelaide, 
the  stupid  little  maid-servant,  to  talk  to. 

"Ah,  here  you  are.  Come  in,  Jackson.  Sit  you  down — 
make  yourself  comfortable.     Is  it  raining  again?" 

"No,  sir,  lovely  fine  night — as  mild  as  what  we  might 
expect  in  May." 

And  the  talk  began.  Often  Jackson  did  too  much  of 
the  talking.  When  he  got  upon  a  narration  of  his  service 
with  some  of  the  highest  families  in  the  land,  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  make  him  stop  talking. 

"Four  years,  sir.  I  remained  in  that  situation — travel- 
ling twice  to  the  Continent  with  her  ladyship — and  never 
a  day's  unpleasantness.  In  that  establishment  the  servants, 
sir,  high  and  low,  were  treated  like  human  beings." 

"Quite  so.  Much  more  proper,"  and  Lenny  would  gape 
and  look  very  vacant. 

But  then  all  at  once  some  name  uttered  accidentally  by 
Jackson  brought  Lenny  to  life. 

"St.  Vincent!  Major  St.  Vincent!  Why,  I  know  him, 
Jackson ;"  and  Lenny's  face  lit  up,  and  he  chattered  volubly. 
"Tall  dark  man — gunner — R.H.A. ?  The  very  man!  I 
used  to  meet  him  frequently  one  winter — oh,  good  gracious, 
I  don't  care  to  say  how  many  years  ago.  That  winter  I 
used  to  train  my  horses  over  to  Peterborough.  It  was  only 
an  hour's  journey  from  us — from  my  father's  place,  I 
mean;"  and  Lenny  paused  and  solemnly  regarded  his  com- 
panion. "Jackson,  have  I  ever  told  you  about  my  old  home 
— the  place  where  I  was  born?" 

"You  have,  sir,  a  many  times." 

"Oh,  very  good."  For  a  moment  Lenny  looked  crest- 
358 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

fallen,  but  then  he  pulled  himself  together,  and  rattled  on 
again.  He  knew  that  if  he  hesitated,  Jackson  would  again 
start  his  twaddle  about  the  servants'  hall. 

One  evening  in  April  when  Jackson  came  for  the  usual 
chat,  he  found  Lenny  staring  at  the  newspaper  and  blinking 
woefully. 

"Oh,  Jackson,  I  have  had  a  most  dreadful  shock." 

"Indeed,  sir?" 

"Yes;"  and  the  newspaper  shook  in  Lenny's  hands. 

"Very  sorry  to  hear  it,  sir,"  said  Jackson  sympathet- 
ically.    "What  might  it  be,  sir?" 

"The  death  of  an  old  friend.  .  .  .  Really  I  don't  feel 
up  to  talk.     I  am  overwhelmed." 

Left  to  himself,  Lenny  continued  to  stare  and  blink 
and  tremble.  What  had  upset  him  so  grievously  was  the 
brief  report  of  a  coroner's  inquest  on  the  body  of  a  lady 
who  had  committed  suicide  at  a  Brighton  hotel.  It  ap- 
peared that  she  had  herself  procured  the  poison;  but  there 
was  some  attempt  to  show  that  she  might  have  swallowed 
it  accidentally.  Her  maid  said  that  the  lady  had  been  suf- 
fering from  sleeplessness,  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  drugs, 
and  probably  selected  the  wrong  bottle  by  mistake.  She 
seemed  just  as  usual  overnight.  But  in  the  morning,  when 
the  locked  door  of  her  room  was  forced  open,  she  was 
found  dressed,  sitting  in  a  chair,  stone  dead.  The  jury 
returned  a  verdict  of  death  by  misadventure;  but  no  one 
could  really  doubt  that  the  poor  lady  had  purposely  killed 
herself. 

And  the  lady  was  Mrs.  Fletcher. 

Lenny  did  not  for  a  moment  believe  that  there  had 
been  any  accident  or  mistake,  and  wonder  and  pain  filled 
his  mind.  It  was  he  who  had  driven  her  to  her  death. 
She  had  never  got  over  the  disappointment;  she  had 
struggled   on   year   after   year;   but   it   was   all   no  good — 

359 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

she  could  not  forget  him;  she  could  not  be  happy  without 
him.  He  felt  remorse  and  grief  as  he  recalled  the  manner 
in  which  he  had  dealt  with  her.  He  had  not  even  an- 
swered that  last  letter  of  hers.  He  should  at  least  have 
done  that — but  at  the  time  it  seemed  an  impossible  letter 
to  answer.  She  never  reproached  him — magnanimous  si- 
lence from  her,  whatever  her  friends  said.  There  was  al- 
ways something  fine,  very  fine,  about  Helen  Fletcher.  He 
had  treated  her  badly ;  he  ought  to  have  married  her ;  it  was 
wrong  not  to  marry  her. 

And  why  hadn't  he  married  her?  He  recalled  the 
incidents  of  the  few  months  during  which  they  were  an 
engaged  couple;  and  suddenly  he  was  startled  by  the  lu- 
cidity, the  penetrating  insight,  the  clairvoyance  that  he  had 
exhibited.  It  had  been  his  judgment  of  her  temperament 
and  character  that  decided  him  to  break  off  the  match.  He 
had  believed  her  to  be  neurotic,  excitable,  not  quite  health- 
ily normal — well,  this  sad  business,  this  appalling  event, 
proved  the  correctness  of  his  judgment,  proved  it  up  to 
the  hilt. 

He  sighed  heavily,  and  let  the  crumpled  paper  fall 
from  his  hands.  Seven,  or  was  it  eight  years  ago?  And 
by  now,  if  he  had  married  her,  he  would  be  a  widower, 
going  about  in  black — winding  up  her  estate,  probably, 
as  executor  and  residuary  legatee.  But  no,  that  was  an 
illogical  thought.  If  he  had  married  her,  she  would  not 
have  done  it.  She  might  have  worried  him  to  death,  but 
she  would  never  have  killed  herself. 

He  sighed  again,  and  for  a  little  while  sat  vacantly 
gaping. 

Then  he  thought  of  something  very  curious.  Once  he 
had  suffered  extreme  apprehension  lest  despair  might  drive 
another  woman  to  suicide.  Strange  that  it  should  be  Helen 
Fletcher,  concerning  whom  he  never  had  the  least  dread, 

360 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

who  eventually  gave  this  ghastly  evidence  of  unquenchable 
love. 

The  news  had  shaken  him.  All  that  evening,  and  nearly 
all  through  the  night,  he  thought  of  this  dead  woman  who 
had  loved  him.  Next  day  and  for  many  days  it  was  the 
same  thing — he  could  think  of  nothing  else. 

He  thought  of  her  state  of  mind,  of  the  horror  of  those 
last  hours,  when  the  maid  had  left  her  and  she  sat  alone, 
steeling  her  heart  to  the  terrific  purpose;  while  all  round 
her,  far  and  near,  the  world  lay  sleeping.  She  sat  in  her 
chair,  held  the  glass  in  her  hand,  raised  it  towards  her 
lips,  put  it  down  again.  Perhaps  the  purpose  wavered. 
Perhaps  she  turned  off  all  the  lights,  and  stood  for  a  little 
while  in  darkness — taking  a  foretaste  of  death,  trying  to 
measure  the  eternal  darkness  into  which  she  intended  to 
hurl  herself.  He  trembled  and  turned  cold  as  he  thought 
of  it.  What  must  her  state  of  mind  have  been  when  she 
decided  that  the  darkness  outside  her  was  no  more  appal- 
ling than  the  darkness  inside  her,  that  the  unknown  was 
less  terrible  than  the  known,  that  by  no  possibility  could 
death  be  worse  than  life? 

In  imagination  he  saw  her  just  before  the  end,  and  just 
after  it.  She  sat  immediately  facing  him — she  was  looking 
at  him — she  had  taken  the  fatal  draught.  A  tinkling 
crash  as  the  glass  fell,  a  contortion  of  the  features,  a  weak 
fluttering  movement  of  the  limbs — and  she  was  sitting  there 
quite  still,  looking  at  him  with  widely  distended  blue  eyes. 
.  .  .  It  seemed  painless — some  doctor  at  the  inquest  said 
it  was  painless.  But  in  the  supremely  awful  moment,  when 
the  poison  flashed  through  her  veins,  and  like  lightning 
striking  a  tree  tore  the  life  out  of  her — suppose  if  the  last 
throb  of  conscious  thought  was  one  of  agonized  regret! 
Too  late  then.    .    .     .     Her  eyes  were  glazing,  her  whole 

3fil 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

body  was  growing  rigid — she  had  been  quite  stiff  and  cold 
for  several  hours  when  they  broke  the  door. 

She  was  haunting  him,  in  the  broad  daylight  as  well  as 
in  the  grey  dusk.  Suppose  that  he  were  to  see  her  ghost. 
Suppose  she  stepped  forward  out  of  the  shadow  by  the 
dressing-table,  or  lurked,  hiding,  waiting,  in  the  darkness 
of  the  other  room.  Suppose  he  heard  her  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  her  stiff  cold  hands  fumbling  at  the  door.  If  the  door 
slowly  opened — if  without  opening  it  she  came  through  the 
door, — what  could  he  say  to  her?  Well,  he  would  have 
to  say,  "Helen,  be  reasonable.  This  has  nothing  to  do  with 
me.  Honestly,  I  cannot  take  the  blame  upon  my  shoulders. 
All  this  was  written  in  the  stars  thousands  of  centuries 
before  you  and  I  ever  met."  .  .  .  Yes,  that  was  what 
he  would  say. 

No,  he  would  say  nothing.  And  why?  Because  his 
tongue  would  be  cleaving  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  his  long 
front  hair  would  be  standing  six  inches  high,  his  spine 
would  be  freezing — he  would  be  paralysed  with  fear. 

The  terror  had  returned  to  him — after  a  year's  immunity. 
And  this  second  attack  was  ten  times  worse  than  the  first. 
It  swept  Mrs.  Fletcher  and  her  ghost  a  million  miles  away, 
it  wiped  out  all  tender  memories,  it  swallowed  his  whole 
past. 

It  was  the  nightly  comprehension  of  the  infinite  small- 
ness  of  himself  in  relation  to  the  infinite  largeness  of  the 
universe.  It  was  the  feeling  of  the  darkness  all  round 
us — measureless  and  invincible — while  we  ourselves  are  but 
little  sparks  of  light,  like  those  fishermen's  lamps  on  the 
sea  at  Westchurch,  so  feeble  a  ray,  so  soon  extinguished. 
And  the  need  of  doing  something,  of  struggling,  of  not 
tamely  submitting,  overwhelmed  him  by  its  imperative 
urgency. 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

If  this  is  our  life,  with  that  tremendous  doom  ever 
creeping  nearer  to  us,  how  can  we  waste  it?  How  can 
we  refrain  from  filling  it  at  least  as  full  as  lies  in  our  power  ? 
Above  all,  if  we  have  no  religious  faith  to  sustain  us,  if 
we  conscientiously  believe  that  this  is  all,  and  that  there 
is  absolutely  nothing  beyond  it — then  how  can  we  squander 
a  moment  from  our  poor  little  hoard  of  time?  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  could  not  afford  the  time  required  for  eating, 
much  less  for  lying  in  bed  and  sleeping. 

And  now  the  nocturnal  distress  had  fixed  itself.  It  was 
simply  the  fear  of  death  and  annihilation:  the  tremen- 
dous sentence  that  men  ignore  till  the  hour  of  execution  has 
almost  come. 

And  by  day  it  was  with  him  too,  less  powerful  but  more 
precise.  Truly  he  had  never  before  thought  of  death  as 
something  that  concerned  himself;  and  hr  .apposed  now 
that  his  was  a  typical  case.  Probably  none  of  the  men  at 
the  club  ever  thought  of  it.  They  ate  and  drank  and 
laughed  as  though  they  were  immortal:  every  day  they 
saw  others  snatched  from  the  sunlight,  but  they  fancied 
that  the  darkness  would  never  touch  them.  He  shuddered 
as  he  remembered  all  the  men  who  had  been  and  now  were 
not — noisy  plethoric  Sir  John  Wilmington,  gentle  Enfield, 
kind  old  Meldrew;  that  unhappy  cripple  Kindersley,  dozens 
and  dozens  of  live  men  who  used  to  nod  and  smile  at  him. 
They  had  gone.  That  was  what  those  who  remained  said 
of  them. 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?     Clarke-Talbot!" 

"No,  what  about  him?" 

"He  has  gone,  poor  chap.  Pneumonia.  It  snuffed  him 
out  in  less  than  a  week." 

The  longest  life  is  only  a  brief  respite  from  this  all- 
embracing,  all-devouring  death.  Then  he  began  to  count 
his  years.  Why,  the  better  part  of  the  respite  was  over 
24  363 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

already.  Only  twenty  years  younger  than  his  father  was 
when  he  died;  and  they  all  said  he  had  enjoyed  a  long 
innings. 

After  a  particularly  devastating  night  he  sat  up  in  bed, 
drinking  hot  tea,  and  hopelessly  considering  his  sad  plight. 
He  was  hastening  the  catastrophe.  If  this  nervous  agita- 
tion continued,  he  would  not  be  alive  by  the  end  of  next 
week.  And  nobody  seemed  to  care — that  enhanced  the 
grimness  of  his  tragedy. 

Jackson  had  just  brought  in  his  clothes,  and  said 
"Good-morning,  sir,"  as  though  nothing  unusual  was  hap- 
pening; upstairs  the  earl  was  singing  John  Peel  and  can- 
tering to  and  fro  across  the  landing;  outside  in  the  streets 
people  were  walking  and  driving,  going  about  their  ordinary 
business.  In  all  the  wide  world  there  was  not  a  soul  who 
minded. 

Nobody  would  help  him.  Ashford  was  an  ass — couldn't 
understand  his  case,  never  had  understood  it.  Yet  any 
clever  doctor — anyone  really  worthy  of  the  name — ought  to 
be  able  to  offer  intelligent  suggestions. 

Then  he  had  an  inspiration.  Dr.  Searle!  Searle — a 
clever  doctor,  and  the  only  person  left  who  was  still  fond 
of  him.     Dear  old  Searle! 

He  rolled  over  in  the  bed  and  rang  the  electric  bell,  went 
on  ringing  it  until  Jackson  appeared. 

"Jackson,  the  telegraph  forms!  A  telegram  to  go  off 
without  an  instant's  delay;"  and  rapidly  he  wrote  out  his 
message  to  Dr.  Searle  at  Westchurch. 

"Come  to  me  immediately.     I  am  in  great  trouble. 

"Lenny  Calcraft." 

Searle  arrived    by  the  afternoon  train;  and  Lenny,  who 
3G4 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

had  gone  to  the  station  to  meet  him,  ran  along  the  plat- 
form, and  clasped  him  by  both  hands  directly  he  alighted. 

"Oh  Searle — my  dear,  dear  fellow — you  have  come.  Oh, 
how  glad  I  am!" 

'What's  up,  Lenny?"  said  Dr.  Searle.  "What's  the 
trouble  ?     Money  ?" 

"No.  Health— can't  you  see  it?  My  health's  all 
wrong." 

"Oh,  really?"  And  Searle  adjusted  his  spectacles,  and 
looked  very  hard  at  Lenny. 

Lenny's  heart  sank  again.  Searle  had  grown  old  and 
stupid — he  wore  spectacles;  he  was  played  out,  doddering. 
But  very  soon  Searle  began  to  do  him  good.  They  dined 
and  went  to  a  music  hall  together;  and  Searle  spent  the 
night  at  Albert  Street,  sleeping  on  a  camp  bedstead  in  Len- 
ny's room. 

Next  day  he  advised  and  arranged  that  Lenny  should 
go  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  stay  for  a  month  or  so  as  a 
paying  guest  with  a  doctor  there. 

Lenny  was  delighted  by  this  idea.  To  be  under  the 
same  roof  with  one's  medical  adviser,  to  have  him  at  one's 
beck  and  call,  to  know  that  he  was  giving  uninterrupted 
care  to  the  case — splendid! 

"Oh,  Searle,  what  a  brick  you  are!  You  have  made 
me  feel  ten  years  younger." 


XXXVII 

THE  visit  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  doctor  seemed  to  be  a 
triumphant  success.  After  ten  days  Lenny  felt  an- 
other man.  He  had  almost  ceased  blinking  and  he 
scarcely  ever  gaped.  All  that  immense  distress  of  vague 
fear  had  gone;  and  he  traced  it  now  to  one  prime  cause — 
the  shock  produced  in  him  by  the  news  of  Mrs.  Fletcher's 
death. 

Dr.  Grant,  a  widower  with  two  daughters,  lived  in  a 
jolly  little  white-walled  house  at  the  foot  of  the  downs  and 
not  far  from  the  sea — a  quiet,  secluded,  peaceful  spot. 
The  rules  of  this  modest  household  were  those  of  the  simple 
life:  early  to  bed,  early  to  rise;  plain  feeding,  and  as  far 
as  Dr.  Grant  could  induce  it,  lofty  thinking. 

Lenny  took  to  it  all,  as  he  said  himself,  like  a  duck  to 
water.  The  milk  puddings,  the  slices  of  mutton,  and  the 
honest  Cheddar  cheese,  were  all  delicious  because  they  were 
beneficial.  And  if  at  first  he  could  have  done  with  more  of 
these  amiable  allies,  he  soon  understood  that,  innocent  and 
bland  as  they  seemed,  they  were  essentially  similar  to  cer- 
tain valuable  medicines  the  efficacy  of  which  vanishes  when 
they  are  taken  otherwise  than  in  small  doses.  He  followed 
his  host's  advice  rigorously:  he  drank  no  wine,  smoked  very 
little  tobacco,  and  cheerfully  tramped  along  the  lanes  with 
either  of  Dr.  Grant's  daughters. 

These  were  full-blown  sandy  young  women,  tanned  and 
freckled,  as  good  as  gold — and  not  in  the  slightest  degree 
exciting.     Lenny  had  an  intuitive  knowledge  that  they  said 

36(5 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

their  prayers  regularly,  and  wore  Jaeger  next  the  skin. 
Why  not?  Very  sensible.  Susan,  the  elder  girl,  managed 
the  house,  wrote  out  her  father's  accounts,  and  kept  his 
books.  Enid,  the  younger  girl,  played  the  piano,  and  was 
fond  of  golf.  He  let  her  recite  Chopin  to  him  of  an  even- 
ing while  Susan  made  up  the  books  in  the  surgery,  but 
he  drew  the  line  when  she  asked  him  to  carry  her  golf 
clubs.  That  is  to  say,  he  promised  he  would  do  it,  but 
never  meant  to.  As  soon  as  they  got  down  to  the  course, 
he  hired  a  caddy,  and  when  Enid  handed  him  the  bag  of 
idiotic  implements  he  handed  it  to  the  caddy. 

Miss  Grant  had  no  opponent  and  intended  to  play  round 
in  solitary  state,  like  old  Reed. 

"Why  don't  you  play  golf?"  she  asked. 

"Because  it  would  bore  me  unspeakably." 

"How  do  you  know?     Have  you  ever  tried?" 

"No." 

"You  ought  to  take  it  up.     It  would  do  you  good." 

"Think  so?"  And  Lenny  became  serious  and  thought- 
ful. Then,  after  she  had  played  two  or  three  holes,  he  said 
he  would  leave  her  to  finish  by  herself.  "I  can  see  I  am 
putting  you  off,  and  I  observe  how  much  you  have  to  say 
to  our  expert  friend  here;"  and  he  smiled  at  the  caddy.  "So, 
as  two  is  company  and  three  is  none,  I'll  stroll  over  the  hill 
to  the  sea." 

But  Miss  Grant  begged  him  to  stay;  and  when  he  in- 
sisted on  going,  she  abandoned  her  game,  and  went  with 
him. 

As  they  strolled  away,  Lenny  rolled  his  head  and  shot 
a  sidelong  and  slightly  roguish  glance  at  his  staunch  com- 
panion. Could  it  be  that  little  freckle-face  was  beginning 
to  experience  rather  too  tender  feelings  in  regard  to  the 
guest  under  her  father's  roof?  He  sincerely  hoped  not. 
That  wouldn't  do  at  all. 

367 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Then  another  explanation  offered  itself.  If  partiality 
for  his  company  was  to  be  accepted  as  evidence  of  love, 
then  the  other  girl  must  be  in  love  with  him  too;  for  she 
had  stuck  to  him  yesterday  as  closely  as  Enid  was  doing 
to-day.  Could  it  be  that  their  father  had  instructed  them 
not  to  allow  the  patient  out  of  their  sight?  He  believed 
that  he  had  hit  the  right  nail  on  the  head,  and  he  was 
delighted  by  the  solicitude  and  attention  of  his  host.  It 
gave  him  if  possible  a  higher  opinion  of  Dr.  Grant  than 
he  had  hitherto  entertained.  It  showed  the  man  to  be  so 
thoroughly  conscientious — sparing  no  pains  to  earn  his 
money. 

The  last  hour  of  the  quiet  evening  always  seemed  espe- 
cially pleasant  to  Lenny.  It  was  then  that  he  went  into 
the  jolly  parlour-surgery.  The  young  ladies  were  gone  to 
bed,  and  the  two  men  had  a  pipe  and  a  talk  together  be- 
fore turning  in. 

"How  many  pipes  to-day?"  Dr.  Grant  asked  politely, 
while  Lenny  was  lighting  up. 

"This  is  my  third — no,  fourth.  I  swear  it's  not  more 
than  my  fourth." 

"That's  right.     Don't  overdo  it." 

"On  my  honour,  I  won't,"  said  Lenny,  with  fervour. 

The  maid-servant  brought  in  barley-water  and  glasses 
on  a  brass  tray;  Dr.  Grant  moved  about  the  room  tidying 
papers  and  putting  away  jars  and  bottles;  and  Lenny, 
sitting  cross-legged  on  a  chair  and  lazily  puffing  out  smoke, 
watched  him  with  childlike  interest.  He  was  perfectly 
happy.  He  observed  his  host's  sandiness  and  baldness,  the 
unfashionable  cut  of  his  trousers,  the  queer  antiquated  ap- 
pearance of  the  jacket  that  he  wore  at  this  time  of  night — 
a  funny  blue  flannel  garment,  with  the  heraldic  arms  of  a 
college  embroidered  on  the  front, — a  cherished  relic  of  the 
doctor's    university    days.      But,   however   insignificant   of 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

aspect  or  quaintly  attired  Dr.  Grant  might  seem,  he  was 
to  Lenny's  eye  imbued  with  majesty  and  might.  Lenny 
watched  him  reverently  and  gratefully — as  the  man  who 
was  expending  skill  and  energy  to  cure  him  and  make  him 
quite  well  again. 

"Well,"  Grant  used  to  say,  still  moving  about  and  tidy- 
ing, "how  have  you  filled  in  the  day?" 

"Oh,  I've  been  as  jolly  as  a  sandboy." 

Then  the  doctor  used  to  sit  in  a  revolving  chair  near 
his  writing-table,  and  turn  about  from  side  to  side;  and 
it  seemed  to  Lenny  that  the  more  he  revolved,  the  more 
serious  and  absorbingly  interesting  he  became. 

Thus,  one  evening,  swinging  round  at  Lenny,  he  talked 
very  seriously  indeed. 

"Calcraft,  it's  three  weeks  since  you  came  here." 

"Yes— how  time  flies!" 

The  doctor  turned  to  his  desk  and  back  again  to 
Lenny. 

"Now,  I  have  come  to  very  definite   conclusions   about 
your  case." 

"Have  you?"  And  Lenny  leaned  forward  over  the  back 
of  his  chair. 

"Yes.  And  I  want  to  tell  you — I  want  to  impress  on 
you  in  the  strongest  manner  my  firm  opinion  that  there's 
nothing  whatever  the  matter  with  you." 

"Oh!"  And  Lenny  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  "That's  what 
Ashford  said." 

"Well,  I  say  it  too." 

"Searle  always  said  it." 

"We  all  three  say  it.  I  say  it  most  emphatically;"  and 
Dr.  Grant  did  a  lot  of  revolving.  "But  of  course  I  am 
speaking  of  the  present  time.  As  to  the  future — the  future 
is  in  your  own  hands." 

"Oh!" 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"You  are  well  now.  You  can  continue  to  keep  well. 
It  all  rests  with  you." 

"With  me?" 

"Yes,  we  are  all  of  us  to  a  very  large  extent  what  we 
make  ourselves.  May  I  take  the  liberty  of  speaking  with 
entire  frankness?" 

"Yes,  I  beg  you  to." 

"Then  I  say  very  earnestly:  Be  a  better  man,  Calcraft, 
and  you'll  be  a  healthier  man." 

And  Dr.  Grant  went  on  talking  in  this  admonitory  tone 
for  some  time.  It  was  very  severe — but  Lenny  did  not 
mind.  Indeed  he  brimmed  over  with  grateful  emotion.  He 
felt  like  an  astound ingly  virtuous  boy  at  school  who  is  being 
caned,  and  who  while  smarting  and  tingling  recognizes 
that  the  punishment  is  inflicted  for  his  ultimate  good.  All 
who  struggled  to  promote  his  welfare  were  friends,  and 
all  who  proved  lukewarm  and  indifferent  were  enemies. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Dr.  Grant,  when  their  talk  had 
come  to  an  end,  and  Lenny  was  lighting  his  bedroom  candle, 
"have  you  dipped  into  that  book  I  advised  you  to  read?" 

"No  not  yet — but  I  intend  to." 

"I  really  think  you  might  get  something  useful  out  of  it." 

"Do  you  mean  to  me  personally?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  The  writer  is  quite  one  of  our  tip-top  men, 
you  know — anything  a  man  of  that  calibre  troubles  to 
write  is  worth  looking  at." 

"Oh,  I'll  read  it  from  cover  to  cover — I  promise  faith- 
fully." 

Lenny  carried  the  candle  upstairs  and  into  his  room, 
where  it  seemed  at  first  to  make  but  a  feeble  spot  of  light. 
But  he  looked  at  the  surrounding  shadows  without  the 
faintest  sense  of  discomfort.  There  were  white  curtains 
above  the  bed  and  more  at  the  windows — these  flopping 
gently  as  the  soft  air  came  through  an  open  lattice;  a  Bible 

370 


IN   COTTON  WOOL 

and  a  bowl  of  primroses  decorated  the  chest  of  drawers; 
and  the  odour  of  lavender  sprigs,  laid  by  the  elder  Miss 
Grant  on  top  shelves  of  a  cupboard,  was  clean  and  sweet. 
The  whole  room  seemed  simple,  homely,  curatively  kind. 
Who  could  fail  to  sleep  well  in  it — especially  when  you 
lay  down  with  the  knowledge  that  in  another  room,  close 
by,  you  had  a  clinking  fine  doctor  ready  to  jump  up  and 
come  if  you  called  for  him? 

After  this  third  week  the  daughters  of  the  house  became 
less  attentive  than  during  the  earlier  part  of  his  visit. 
They  did  not  offer  their  society  for  walks,  but  waited  for 
him  to  invite  it — and  sometimes  even  then  courteously  ex- 
cused themselves.  He  was  not  a  bit  offended — he  guessed 
that  their  father  had  warned  them  it  might  now  be  con- 
sidered boring. 

He  took  the  doctor's  book  out  with  him,  and  read  it 
during  his  solitary  rambles.  It  was  called  The  Temple 
and  its  Guardian,  and  it  did  not  greatly  impress  Lenny. 
A  mixture  of  ethics,  psychology,  and  physiology,  after  the 
modern  fashion,  it  was  written  tersely  and  lucidly  enough; 
and  the  writer's  message,  if  he  had  any,  appeared  to  be 
a  warning  against  the  dangers  of  selfishness.  He  said  that 
excessive  selfishness  was  due  to  a  loss  of  the  sense  of  pro- 
portion, and  in  its  extremest  manifestations  it  became  akin 
to  insanity. 

Very  wise,  no  doubt,  but  very  trite — certainly  nothing 
new. 

However,  politeness  to  Dr.  Grant  impelled  Lenny  to 
skim  through  the  volume.  Fortunately  the  print  was 
large;  and  once  or  twice  he  was  genuinely  interested  by 
observing  an  exact  parallelism  between  the  thoughts  of 
the  author  and  his  own  thoughts.  There  were  certain 
passages   that  absolutely  echoed   his  often   repeated   n-lliv- 

371 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

tions.  For  instance — through  page  after  page  the  author 
harped  on  the  necessity  of  providing  oneself  with  innocent 
pursuits.  Well,  he  himself  had  said  the  same  thing  dozens 
of  times.  It  had  been  for  a  long  while  a  pet  theory  with 
him. 

But,  reading  on,  he  met  a  passage  that  seemed  to  extend 
and  widen  the  theory  unexpectedly.  This  passage  impressed 
him.  After  he  had  closed  the  book,  he  remembered  the  sen- 
tences almost  verbatim:  there  was  something  enigmatical 
about  them;  they  seemed  to  possess  a  significance  which  he 
could  not  master,  but  which  haunted  him — almost  as  if 
they  too  contained  a  thought  of  his  own,  often  felt,  but 
never  expressed. 

This  was  the  gist  of  it: — "The  entirely  self-centred  man 
is  always  a  man  slowly  killing  himself — Lenny  put  these 
words  in  mental  italics.  "If  for  no  higher  reason,  every 
wise  man  should  keep  alive  numerous  altruistic  motives; 
he  should  nourish  them  and  stimulate  them;  and  if  op- 
portunities do  not  present  themselves,  he  should  vigorously; 
hunt  for  any  means  of  self-sacrifice.  .  .  .  As  an  ex- 
ample, bachelors  do  not  usually  live  as  long  as  married 
men;  yet  no  observer  of  the  world  would  maintain  that 
bachelors  really  take  less  care  of  themselves.  No,  they  are 
always  taking  care  of  themselves,  and  it  is  the  care  that 
shortens  their  lives.  On  the  other  hand,  your  married  man 
very  likely  toils  incessantly ;  he  is  always  struggling  to  amass 
money  and  spending  it  on  his  wife  or  his  children;  the 
aim  of  his  life  is  not  his  own  comfort,  but  the  comfort 
of  those  he  loves." 

Lenny  wondered  if  there  were  any  truth  in  that?  Right 
or  wrong,  it  certainly  had  no  value  for  him.  He  could 
not  apply  it  to  his  own  case  for  the  best  of  all  reasons — 
because  he  was  not  himself  a  married  man.  He  carried  the 
book  home  thoughtfully,  feeling  rather  puzzled  to  under- 

372 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

stand   how   and   why   Dr.   Grant   had   thought   he   would 
like  it. 


His  favourite  saunter  was  up  a  cart-track,  through  sev- 
eral gates,  across  a  slope  of  bare  down,  and  into  a  small 
pine  wood.  The  month  of  June  had  opened  propitiously; 
there  had  been  no  rain  for  several  days;  and  here,  among 
these  fragrant  pines,  the  naked  ground  and  the  mossy  banks 
of  a  ditch  were  alike  perfectly  dry.  Lenny  used  to  sit  and 
lie  here  for  hours.  Through  the  tall  stems  of  the  trees, 
looking  from  the  shade  to  the  sunlight,  he  had  entrancing 
glimpses  of  emerald  sward,  white  hawthorns,  and  beyond 
all  the  silvery  sea. 

And  here  it  happened  that  he  caught  a  far  more  tremen- 
dous glimpse — a  glimpse  of  the  truth  about  himself. 

He  had  been  idly  thinking  of  that  book,  The  Temple 
and  its  Guardian.  The  Temple  of  course  was  one's  intel- 
lect, or  the  spiritual,  choicest  part  of  one ;  and  the  Guardian 
was  just  oneself, — all  the  rest  of  one.  And  it  behooved  one 
to  guard  the  temple  wisely,  as  well  as  jealously — and  the 
man  said  if  one  was  too  careful  one  made  a  mess  of  it. 

Then,  quite  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  he  asked  himself 
a  question.  Had  he  been  less  selfish  than  the  bulk  of  man- 
kind, or  had  he  been  just  as  selfish?  And  the  answer 
seemed  to  come  from  nowhere — like  a  terrific  shell  fired 
from  a  ship  below  the  horizon  and  bursting  with  incredible 
clatter  over  his  head: 

He  had  been  more  selfish. 

Could  it  be  possible?  Then  what  had  become  of  his 
early  reputation,  his  uniquely  magnificent  fame?  All  the 
world  had  bowed  down  to  him  as  the  most  unselfish  per- 
son that  ever  breathed.  In  those  days  there  had  been  plenty 
of  self-sacrifice;  he  had  lived  not  for  himself,  but  for  oth- 
ers— for  one  other,  his  father.    And  it  occurred  to  him  now 

373 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

that  throughout  that  bygone  time,  while  he  was  trampling 
on  his  own  desires  and  inclinations,  he  had  been  wonder- 
fully fit  and  hearty. 

But  after  that  time  there  had  been  very  little  self-sacri- 
fice. None  at  all.  He  had  considered  himself  only:  the 
single  undeviating  aim  in  every  scheme,  big  or  small,  had 
been  self,  nothing  but  self.  He  saw  his  past,  from  the  be- 
ginning of  consciousness  to  the  present  reverie — and  it  was 
all,  all  selfishness.  Truly  it  was  marvellous,  almost  mirac- 
ulous, this  glimpse  of  truth. 

He  was  reclining  on  the  dry  bank  just  inside  the  wood; 
and,  folding  his  hands  behind  his  head,  he  looked  upward 
through  dark  foliage  at  patches  of  blue  sky,  and  thought 
with  his  fullest  capacity.  He  recognized  this  as  a  crisis — 
perhaps  the  most  important  hour  of  his  existence.  He 
had  come  to  it  without  anticipatory  instinct.  But  now 
that  it  had  come,  instinct  told  him  that  he  must  exhaust 
its  utmost  potentialities.  The  discipline  of  the  last  few 
weeks,  together  with  the  agony  of  mind  through  which  he 
had  recently  passed;  his  physical  condition  at  the  moment; 
the  emptiness,  the  cleanness,  the  refining  and  bracing  ef- 
fects of  sparse  diet  and  cold  baths — all  these  things  had 
combined  to  prepare  the  way  for  an  introspective  vision  of 
unsurpassable  clearness. 

His  thought  flashed  like  a  searchlight,  blazed  like  a 
magnesium  flare,  flooded  like  a  sunburst,  to  show  him 
himself  and  his  life  as  they  had  really  been.  Oh,  what  a 
wretch,  what  an  utterly  selfish  wretch! 

He  turned  on  the  mossy  bank,  lay  face  downwards, 
and  gave  himself  over  to  shame  and  grief.  Monstrous 
and  incredible — but  true:  for  more  than  half  his  life 
he  had  been  selfishness  incarnate.  Splendid  at  dawn,  to 
what  a  ruin  had  he  degenerated  before  the  fall  of  night! 
And  pity,  warm  and  suffocating  pity,  mingled  with  his  sor- 

374 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

row.  In  the  history  of  the  solar  system  was  there  so  black 
a  page — a  degradation  more  heartrending? 

And  again  he  thought  of  the  doctor's  book.  Never 
had  the  world  been  ornamented  with  a  nobler  temple — 
to  begin  with;  and  never  had  it  seen  so  wicked  a  guardian. 
Guardian !  A  wallowing  hog  who  had  made  of  the  beauti- 
ful temple  the  dirtiest  and  most  disgusting  pig-sty ! 

More  than  an  hour  went  by,  and  he  did  not  move. 
Then  he  turned,  sat  up,  and  once  again  looked  at  the  sky. 
The  passion  of  regret  had  passed;  another,  a  slower 
phenomenon,  had  begun.  It  was  the  building  up  after  the 
knocking  down.  Hope!  Why  should  he  despair?  While 
one  breathes  one  may  hope.  He  might  still  amend  his 
course,  turn  over  a  new  leaf — of  the  remainder  of  life  he 
might  make  something  less  despicable  than  the  large  slice 
of  life  that  had  gone. 

And  slowly  there  came  the  longing,  the  intensifying  hope, 
for  better  and  higher  things.  He  was  thinking  humbly  and 
piteously,  with  thoughts  that  were  like  prayers;  but,  grow- 
ing and  strengthening  deep  inside  him,  there  seemed  to  be 
what  there  had  not  been  for  such  a  miserably  long  time — 
resolve. 

Regeneration,  a  new  birth,  the  glory  of  rising  towards 
the  mountain  peaks  just  when  one  has  nearly  fallen  into 
cavernous  abysses!  Kind  acts,  clean  thoughts,  days  spent 
for  the  good  of  one's  brother  men — oh,  if  it  were  possible! 

Butterflies  hovered,  and  were  bright  in  the  sunshine 
and  dark  in  the  shade;  now  and  then  there  came  the  clear 
song  of  a  lark,  and  always  one  could  hear  the  humming 
music  of  insect  myriads.  Lenny  watched  and  listened  with 
tender  interest,  with  welling  sympathy,  for  all  things  large 
br  small.  He  would  not  for  a  thousand  pounds  have 
crushed  one  of  the  ants  who  were  toiling  so  bravely  to 
move  the  pine  needles  near  his  feet.    Work,  courage,  obliv- 

375 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

ion  of  self — with  these,  ants  and  men  may  move  mountains. 

The  hours  glided  away,  and  it  seemed  to  him  like  a  long 
purification — Nature's  revivifying  bath.  Blue  sky,  gentle 
air,  kindly  earth — never  before  had  he  felt  so  close  to  ele- 
mental joy.  He  sprawled  upon  the  ground,  patted  it,  ca- 
ressed it.  Here,  like  a  child  returned  to  the  universal 
mother,  he  lay  on  her  breast,  drawing  comfort  and  peace. 

Drawing  hope,  too.  Regeneration — to  achieve  it  should 
be  his  purpose  henceforth  while  the  respite  from  the  dark- 
ness lasted.  The  longing  for  redemption  and  amendment 
was  intensely  strong.  There  was  reality  now  in  all  his 
feelings — something  that  he  himself  understood  to  be  in- 
trinsically different  from  anything  he  had  of  late  expe- 
rienced: a  current  of  emotion  that  seemed  to  run  quietly 
because  of  its  depth  and  volume,  whereas  all  recent  fancies 
were  but  as  babbling  torrents  that  leap  and  break  at  every 
rock. 

The  day  was  nearly  over  when  he  emerged  from  the 
pine  wood.  As  he  came  down  the  cart-track  to  the  lane, 
he  was  thinking  of  religion.  Religious  faith  is  a  potent 
aid  in  sustaining  altruistic  motives.  He  had  once  believed. 
Could  he  not  believe  again? 

In  sight  of  the  white-walled  house,  he  glanced  at  his 
watch.  Close  on  dinner-time!  No  luncheon  and  no  aft- 
ernoon tea — it  was  thirty  years  since  he  had  voluntarily 
missed  a  meal. 

That  night  in  the  surgery  Lenny  talked  to  the  doctor 
as  to  a  priest.  He  confessed  himself.  He  was  loud  in 
condemnation  of  the  old  life,  and  piteously  plaintive  while 
pleading  for  encouragement  in  the  fresh  life. 

He  could  not  restrain  his  tears — scarcely  attempted  to 
rio  so.     The  tears  were  a  part  of  the  purifying  process. 

376 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

He  spoke  of  his  doubts  as  well  as  of  his  hopes,  and  quoted 
those  saddest  of  wrords — "It  might  have  been." 

"Calcraft,"  said  the  doctor,  gently  and  kindly.  "You 
know  another  proverbial  saying,  the  truest  of  all  adages. 
It  is  never  too  late  to  mend." 

Lenny  grasped  the  doctor's  hand,  shook  it,  clung  to  it, 
and  sobbed  over  it. 

"Grant,  you  mean  that — on  your  honour?" 

"Of  course  I  mean  it — honour  bright  and  shining." 

"Oh,  my  dear  Grant — oh  how  you  rejoice  me!  Yes,  yes, 
I  know  now  that  the  adage  is  true." 

Upstairs  in  his  sweet-smelling,  homely  room,  Lenny  did 
one  of  those  two  things  which  he  had  guessed  the  Miss 
Grants  did  regularly.  He  knelt  by  the  bed  and 
prayed. 

The  lowly  and  humble  attitude  seemed  entirely  appro- 
priate, beautifully  symbolizing  his  spiritual  state — meek, 
fervent,  trustful.  The  hardness  of  the  floor  seemed  to 
fortify  him;  the  bed  was  an  altar;  and  the  perfume  of  lav- 
ender was  incense,  mysteriously  filling  his  bowed  head  with 
strange  virtues. 

He  prayed  to  Christ  the  Redeemer  of  mankind — to  God 
the  Eternal  Father — to  the  Holy,  Blessed,  and  Glorious 
Trinity, — for  aid  in  his  new  and  great  endeavours.  And 
perhaps  he  was  sub-consciously  aware  that  he  did  not  be- 
lieve; but  he  did  most  sincerely  feel  that  in  a  matter  of 
such  transcendent  importance  he  must  not  miss  a  single 
chance — even  an  off  chance.  He  knew  that  he  was  weak, 
and  he  wanted  to  have  everybody  on  his  side. 


XXXVIII 

HE  was  back  again  in  London;  and  he  continued  to 
deprive  himself  of  alcohol,  to  eat  sparingly,  and  to 
think  wholesomely.     His  desire  for  the  new  life 
had  increased  rather  than  diminished. 

Walking  along  Pall  Mall  one  afternoon,  he  was  startled 
by  seeing  a  very  old  friend.  The  friend  had  not  seen  him, 
and  for  a  moment  Lenny  felt  a  strong  impulse  to  slink 
round  a  corner  into  St.  James's  Square  and  thus  avoid  a 
meeting.  Yet,  no;  that  would  be  unworthy:  the  sort  of 
thing  he  used  to  do,  but  must  never  do  again.  He  wrestled 
with  the  base  inclination,  and,  conquering  it,  hurried  after 
his  friend  and  accosted  him. 

"George,  don't  you  know  me?     Wont  you  know  me?" 

It  was  George  Verinder — the  man  who  of  all  others  he 
had  loved  and  respected — dear  old  George,  grey-haired  but 
bright-eyed,  erect,  alert,  energetic,  looking  like  a  grey- 
haired  boy. 

"What!   Calcraft!   I  should  never  have  recognized  you." 

"Am  I  so  changed?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — it's  such  a  long  time  since  we  met." 

Verinder  had  not  shaken  hands,  and  he  spoke  coldly. 
Nevertheless  he  reluctantly  consented  to  be  marched  off 
to  Lenny's  club  for  tea. 

"Or  anything  else  you  prefer,"  said  Lenny  hospitably. 

"Nothing  but  a  cup  of  tea,  thank  you." 

"Ah,"  said  Lenny,  "you  are  like  me.  You  play  light 
with  the  whiskies-and-sodas." 

378 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

George  Verinder  looked  at  him  very  coldly,  and  said 
that  he  should  not  be  able  to  linger  over  their  tea.  He 
added  that  he  was  full  of  business  just  now. 

They  sat  in  one  of  the  windows  of  the  smoking-room; 
and  Lenny  thought  that  George  without  his  hat  looked 
even  younger  still.  He  was  grey  all  over  his  neatly- 
shaped  head,  but  there  did  not  seem  to  be  a  sign  of  bald- 
ness; his  dark  eyes  were  extraordinarily  bright,  with 
a  glowing  fire  of  virile  strength  behind  them;  his  brown 
fingers,  drumming  on  the  arm  of  a  chair,  seemed  powerful 
as  little  hammers — altogether  he  was  a  man  bursting  with 
energy.  And  in  Lenny  affection  was  brimming  upwards, 
clamouring  to  get  out.  He  yearned  for  a  heart-to-heart 
talk  with  this  friend  of  his  youth. 

But  Verinder's  icy  coldness  froze  him.  He  became  nerv- 
ous, and  when  the  tea-tray  arrived  he  proved  an  awkward 
blundering  host. 

"Er — George — two  lumps  of  sugar?" 

"None,  thank  you." 

"Oh,  dear — now  I  have  put  sugar  in  both  cups.  I'll 
ring  for  another  cup." 

"No,  please  don't.  That  will  do  excellently;"  and 
George  took  one  of  the  cups,  and  gulped  down  the  sweet- 
ened tea. 

Lenny  sat  blinking.  He  was  struggling  to  be  brave  in- 
stead of  cowardly.  This  was  a  turning-point — now  or 
never  he  must  begin  the  new  life.  If  he  could  not  live 
up  to  his  ideal  during  this  slight  test,  how  could  he  go 
on  hoping?  He  gaped  once;  then  coughed  and  cleared  his 
throat. 

"Er— George,"  he  said  huskily.  "I  call  you  George— 
but  you  don't  call  me  Lenny." 

"No,  don't  I?"     And  Verinder  smiled. 

"Something  has  come  between  us,  George.  What  is  it?" 
25  379 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Verinder  looked  at  him  questioningly,  and  remained  silent. 

"George,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me." 

"My  dear  fellow/'  said  Verinder  carelessly,  "it's  ancient 
history,  not  worth  talking  about." 

"But  I  value  your  good  opinion  as  much  as  ever — and 
I  see  that  I  have  forfeited  it." 

"Well,  if  you  insist — you  have." 

"Why?" 

"My  dear  chap,  what  is  it  that  the  French  say?  Tout 
lasse,  tout  casse,  tout  passe.  Years  ago  I  heard  things 
about  you  that  I  denied.  One  thing  I  denied  hotly.  People 
said  that  you  never  really  divided  your  father's  property 
among  your  relations — and  I  said  I  knew  you  had  done  it, 
because  you  told  me  so  yourself." 

"George,"  said  Lenny  earnestly,  "when  I  told  you,  I 
fully  intended  to  do  it.  But  in  the  end  I  found  I  couldn't. 
I  did  do  a  good  bit — but  not  all.  I  blame  myself — I  had 
losses,  I  gambled  on  the  Stock  Exchange.    Life  is  difficult." 

"But  I  heard  other  things." 

"Did  you?  .  .  .  George,  life  is  fearfully  complex. 
I  am  only  now  beginning  to  get  a  true  view  of  its  responsi- 
bilities." 

Verinder  had  got  up;  and,  looking  downward  at  Lenny, 
his  dark  eyes  softened. 

"Yes.  Life  is  full  of  responsibilities.  I  am  just  taking 
some  on  my  shoulders;"  and  he  smiled,  and  his  eyes  glowed. 
"And  who  the  dickens  am  I  that  I  should  venture  to  judge 
you?  No  doubt  you  meant  well — even  if  you  failed  now 
and  then."  And  he  held  out  his  hand.  "Good-bye,  old 
chap ;  and  good  luck  to  you." 

"George,  sit  down  again.  Spare  me  five  minutes — by  the 
clock.    You — you  don't  know  what  good  it  may  do  me." 

Verinder  laughed,  almost  in  the  old  friendly  way,  and 

380 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

resumed  his  chair;  and  Lenny  asked  a  question  that  cer- 
tainly belonged  to  the  new  life. 

"Will  you  tell  me  about  yourself,  George?" 

Verinder  admitted  that  he  had  been  lucky,  especially 
of  late.  An  appointment  had  come  to  him  just  when  he 
most  wanted  it. 

"And  you  are  a  general  now,"  said  Lenny.  "How 
grandly  you  have  got  on!  Fancy!  General  Sir  George 
Verinder!     They  made  you  a  K.C.B.,  didn't  they?" 

"Yes,  they  gave  me  a  gold  star  to  use  as  a  chest  plaster; 
and,  if  I'm  good,  they  say  they'll  give  me  a  red  sash  to 
keep  my  tummy  warm,"  and  Verinder  laughed  joyously. 

"And  you  are  happy,  George?" 

"My  dear  Lenny,  I'm  so  happy  that  I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't 
contain  so  much  happiness." 

"That's  splendid." 

Then,  throwing  off  reserve  and  speaking  quite  in  the 
old  delightful  way,  Verinder  told  his  friend  that  he  was 
going  to  be  married  on  Thursday  to  the  sweetest  girl  that 
ever  lived.  And  as  he  talked  about  her,  the  look  in  his 
bold  brave  eyes  was  wonderful — so  soft,  so  wistful,  so  chiv- 
alrously kind. 

"Lenny,  what  a  thing  love  is!  She's  young,  she's  beau- 
tiful— and  yet  my  ugly  mug  hasn't  frightened  her.  What 
have  I  done  to  deserve  it — what  can  I  do  to  deserve  it?" 
And  he  sprang  up  lightly  as  a  boy.  "I  really  must  toddle. 
.     .    .     It's  on  Thursday.     Come  and  see  us  spliced." 

"Will  you  really  let  me?" 

"Yes,  do  come.  .  .  .  And  I  say — I'm  giving  a  little 
dinner  to  a  few  pals — only  about  a  dozen  of  us — to-morrow 
night.     Come  to  that  too." 

"Delighted.    .    .    .    Then  au  revoir,  dear  old  George." 

"Ta,  ta,  old  chap." 

381 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Lenny  went  to  the  bachelor  dinner,  in  a  private  room  of 
a  Regent  Street  restaurant;  but  he  did  not  enjoy  it.  Al- 
though George  was  extremely  kind,  doing  him  honour,  and 
making  much  of  him,  Lenny  felt  out  of  it.  He  could  not 
of  course  sit  next  to  his  host,  who  had  a  general  on  each 
side  of  him,  making  three  generals  all  of  a  row. 

"Here's  towards  you,"  said  George,  drinking  wine  with 
Lenny,  and  grinning  quite  affectionately.  .  .  .  "You 
know,  Calcraft  and  I  began  our  soldiering  together." 

Yes,  but  Lenny  had  stopped,  and  George  had  gone  on.  A 
grand  career!  And  these  were  the  friends  he  had  made 
in  the  course  of  it — they  were  his  real  friends,  his  normal 
friends  now.  They  all  knew  each  other  well,  and  they  all 
were  very  fond  of  George. 

Lenny  felt  that  they  were  essentially  different  from  him, 
and  he  from  them.  He  looked  at  them  all  studiously,  one 
after  another.     Ten  typical  non-regimental  officers. 

These  were  the  men  of  irrepressible  activity,  who  get 
seconded  for  all  sorts  of  service,  who  cannot  and  will 
not  stay  with  a  regiment.  They  are  physically  incapable 
of  sitting  quietly  in  ante-room  armchairs;  they  quickly 
grow  tired  of  perpetual  cricket  and  polo;  they  become 
slack  in  hunting  petticoats,  and  even  weary  of  killing 
foxes ; — but  they  can  hear  guns  firing,  though  it's  half  across 
the  world,  and  they  rush  headlong  to  the  iron  music  that 
they  love.  They  make  themselves  pleasant  enough  when 
you  meet  them  at  a  little  gathering  like  this;  but  they 
would  be  rude  to  you,  they  would  knock  you  down  and 
skip  over  you,  if  you  got  in  their  way — that  is,  if  you 
stood  between  them  and  danger. 

George  had  picked  them  here  and  there,  about  the  red 
parts  of  the  map,  but  the  bond  seemed  quite  as  strong 
as  if  they  had  all  worn  the  same  facings  and  badges.  As 
far  as  Lenny  could  understand,  most  of  them  had  served 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

together  in  one  of  the  Soudan  campaigns.  They  talked 
a  lot  about  the  Soudan,  and  lamented  the  absence  of  an- 
other campaigner. 

"It  doesn't  seem  like  home,  without  Bickers  Darell." 

"No,  Bicky  ought  to  have  been  here;"  and  they  asked 
George  why  Bicky  wasn't  there.  "Didn't  you  know  he 
was  in  London?     He  turned  up  yesterday." 

"Yes,"  said  George,  "I  saw  him  this  morning.  I've 
explained  to  Bicky."  And  Lenny  heard  what  he  said  to 
the  general  on  his  right.  "Twelve,  you  know.  We're 
twelve.     Bicky  would  have  made  us  thirteen." 

And  Lenny  felt  still  more  out  of  it.  He  was  the  real 
thirteenth.  By  snapping  at  an  invitation  uttered  in  a  mo- 
ment of  expansive  warmth,  perhaps  uttered  almost  in  pity, 
he  had  taken  the  seat  of  a  guest  who  would  have  been  a 
million  times  more  welcome  than  himself. 

They  drank  George's  health,  very  quietly  and  sedately. 
But,  observing  how  when  they  sat  down  again  they  pulled 
their  moustaches,  frowned,  or  stared,  Lenny  surmised 
that  they  felt  strongly  and  were  suppressing  all  emotional 
demonstrations. 

Then  all  at  once  they  made  a  hideous  noise.  One  of 
them  sang  what  he  called  The  Song  of  the  Desert  Bri- 
gades, and  the  rest  joined  in  the  chorus.  And  two  of  the 
younger  men  stood  on  chairs,  and  at  the  end  of  the  song 
threw  their  glasses  over  their  heads. 

Lenny  got  away  as  soon  as  he  could.  He  had  never 
attended  a  dinner-party  where  he  felt  so  much  out  of  it. 

He  went  to  the  wedding  next  day,  saw  the  guests, 
listened  to  hymns  and  prayers;  sat,  knelt,  and  vvallu-d 
in  the  midst  of  a  joyous  crowd,  feeling  absolutely  alone. 
He  noticed  that  the  company  consisted  of  charming  well- 
bred  people,  and  that  on  both  sides  of  the  church  every- 
body  seemed    fond    and    proud    of    the    bridegroom.      He 


IN   COTTON   WOOL, 

watched  the  bride  going  up  the  aisle  on  her  father's  arm- 
quite  a  young  girl,  with  a  veil  through  which  her  face 
looked  like  a  white  flower  seen  in  sunlight  after  rain,  rather 
misty  and  tremulous.  He  watched  her,  with  raised  veil, 
coming  down  the  aisle  on  her  husband's  arm.  She  and 
George  had  eyes  for  nobody  but  each  other;  they  were  both 
smiling;  and  they  seemed  to  float,  to  sweep  past,  as  if  they 
had  become  so  light  that  they  were  blown  along  on  the  me- 
lodious wind  that  had  sprung  up  in  the  great  church-organ. 

And  both  during  the  divine  service  and  at  the  subse- 
quent reception,  Lenny  thought  with  wonder.  Truly 
wonderful !  Here  was  this  fresh,  radiant  young  girl  giving 
herself  to  George,  and  nobody — except  George — seemed  a 
bit  surprised.  All  these  nice  people  handed  her  over  to 
him  cheerfully.  Her  parents,  who  had  brought  her  up, 
fed  her  on  milk  puddings  to  improve  her  complexion,  made 
her  do  gymnastics  for  the  good  of  her  figure,  and  bathed  her 
in  cold  water  to  strengthen  her  nerves; — after  all  their 
trouble  and  expense,  as  soon  as  she  filled  out  big  and 
bloomed  like  a  healthy  white  rose,  her  parents  seemed  per- 
fectly willing  to  hand  her  over  to  George — to  a  man  as 
old  as  himself.  Wonderful!  Suppose  such  a  thing  were 
happening  to  him  instead  of  to  George! 

But  the  glamour  of  George's  fame!  It  was  his  grand 
career  that  had  done  the  trick.  Such  an  unbroken  record 
of  success.  The  cross  for  valour;  this,  that  and  the  other; 
everything  helps  in  building  up  a  reputation! 

The  thought  came  inevitably — this  ought  to  have 
been  Lenny's  career.  George  and  he  started  together — 
and  he,  Lenny,  was  the  most  likely  one  at  the  beginning; 
he  was  cock  of  the  walk  then;  George  looked  up  to  him 
and  admired  him;  officers  and  men  of  that  militia  regiment 
thought  more  of  him  than  of  George.  Could  he  have 
done  all  that  George  did  ?    Why  not  ?    In  that  far-off  time, 

384 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

when  he  saw  a  pair  of  horses  running  away,  he  stopped 
them — without  hesitation. 

Sadness,  unavoidable  sadness  in  these  reflections.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  seeing  his  own  life  as  it  ought 
to  have  been. 

There  wTas  such  a  pressing  mob  all  round  the  happy 
pair  that  he  had  difficulty  in  getting  at  them  to  say  fare- 
well and  wish  them  joy. 

"Good-bye,  Lady  Verinder.  Bon  voyage!  .  .  .  Good- 
bye, dear  old  George." 

The  grip  of  George's  hammer-fingers  made  him  wince 
with  pain. 


XXXIX 

WHEN  a  middle-aged  gentleman  wishes  to  cancel  all 
the  previous  chapters  of  his  history  and  to  start 
the  next  chapter  in  quite  a  different  vein,  the 
first  blank  page  is  apt  to  stare  at  him  very  blankly  in- 
deed. 

Lenny  often  considered  possibilities,  and  many  things 
suggested  themselves.  How  can  one  make  oneself  most 
genuinely  useful  to  one's  country  and  one's  fellow-men? 
The  regular  army  was  not  a  possibility.  Too  late:  he 
was  too  old — the  authorities  wouldn't  take  him  back.  But 
this  Territorial  scheme!  Surely  one  could  get  something 
to  do  on  the  Territorial  establishment — find  a  nice  round 
hole  where  one  would  not  prove  to  be  a  square  peg?  Lenny 
felt  that  he  would  like  to  help  the  Secretary  of  State. 
Or  this  Boy  Scout  movement,  started  in  such  a  spirited 
manner  by  that  brave  and  brilliant  fellow  whose  energy 
was  only  surpassed  by  his  fertility  of  resource.  Lenny  ad- 
mired and  would  be  pleased  to  assist  the  Cavalry  General. 
Or,  best  of  all,  there  was  the  crusade  of  that  most  mag- 
nificent of  men,  that  eagle  of  war,  that  white-haired  pala- 
din! He  still  urged  his  beloved  England  to  arm;  he  lifted 
his  voice,  and  no  one  listened;  with  tongue  and  with  pen 
he  demonstrated  the  vital  necessity  of  universal  service,  and 
the  stupid  ungrateful  world  treated  its  hero  as  a  person 
with  a  bee  in  his  bonnet. 

Lenny  felt  drawn  towards  the  Field  Marshal.  Oh,  if 
one  could  help  him!    Yet  it  seemed  presumptuous  to  fancy 

386 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

even  for  a  moment  that  anybody  else  could  succeed  where 
that  thrice  illustrious  prince  had  failed. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  characteristic 
persuasiveness,  personal  magnetism,  individual  charm — call 
it  what  you  will.  Lenny  remembered  his  success  at  the 
East  End — how  he  had  talked  to  those  lads,  how  they  had 
clustered  round  him  and  hung  upon  his  words,  what  an 
influence  he  had  exerted  in  such  a  little  while.  Everybody 
noticed  it. 

Suddenly  he  began  to  glow  with  enthusiasm.  Why  not? 
He  was  in  his  bedroom,  and  he  had  been  dressing  very 
slowly;  but  now  he  moved  about  more  briskly,  flung  down 
his  collar,  and  marched  into  the  front  room. 

Why  not?  One  might  go  about  the  country  in  a  van, 
and  unobtrusively  entering  sleepy  little  towns,  descend  from 
the  van  at  the  market  place — and  fairly  wake  'em  up.  One 
could  hire  halls  and  give  lectures — popular,  catching,  rous- 
ing speeches.  And  it  might  be  as  well  to  have  a  magic  lan- 
tern.    As  he  thought  of  it,  he  snapped  his  fingers. 

"Now,  my  lads,  I'll  show  you  two  pictures,  and  ask  you 
which  you  would  like  to  be.  Would  you  like  to  be  this?" 
Snap!  And  the  operator  would  shove  in  his  slide — picture 
of  a  besotted  lout  sitting  on  an  ale-house  bench.  "Or  would 
you  like  to  be  this?"  Snap!  Another  slide — picture  of 
a  smart  young  soldier  in  uniform.  And  a  further  idea — 
not  half  a  bad  idea!  One  might  get  two  jolly  pretty  girls 
— two  little  musical  comedy  actresses;  and  dress  'em  as 
v'tvandieres,  with  a  drum  round  each  of  their  necks.  Then 
at  the  end  of  the  lecture  he  would  say,  very  simply,  "That 
is  all  of  my  talk.  Let  something  else  talk;"  and  the  girls 
would  beat  their  drums  and  walk  up  and  down  the  plat- 
form in  a  coquettish  and  alluring  fashion.  Ber-r-r-ra-ra ! 
Ber-r-r-ra-ra ! 

"Now,"  he  would  say,  loudly  and  firmly,  "who's  going 
387 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

to  follow  the  drum?"  ...  "I  will,  sir.  ...  I 
will.  .  .  .  Me  too,  sir."  .  .  .  And  he  would  come 
down  from  the  platform,  march  through  the  hall,  with  his 
drummer-girls  behind  him;  through  the  cheering  crowd,  out 
into  the  open  streets. 

In  imagination  he  saw  this,  and  much  more.  He  saw 
a  wide  landscape  sleeping  in  the  sunlight,  a  white  road 
leading  up  a  long  hill,  a  vast  procession  trailing  over 
miles  of  down  and  valley — ploughmen  are  leaving  their 
horses,  the  hedgerow  labourer  drops  his  sickle,  the  water- 
cress gatherer  abandons  basket  and  stream; — over  the 
brown  stubble  and  through  the  green  roots  they  are 
running,  to  follow  the  faint  beat  of  the  distant  drum.  It 
is  Lenny — like  the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin — emptying 
the  villages,  just  as  he  has  emptied  the  towns;  it  is  Lenny 
drawing  all  England  to  the  banners  of  the  brave;  it  is 
old  Lenny  doing  what  nobody  else  could  do — he  is  making, 
has  very  nearly  made,  a  national  army. 

He  might  be  able  to  do  it — or  again  he  might  not. 
All  at  once  the  idea  struck  him  as  childish,  merely  a  day- 
dream. It  would  be  better  to  attack  the  problem  quietly 
— at  any  rate  at  first.  One  could  prepare  the  mind  of 
the  populace  by  writing  newspaper  letters,  pamphlets, 
even  substantial  books.  But  to  write  books  one  ought  to 
have  a  store  of  knowledge,  and  Lenny  felt  himself  deficient 
in  erudition.  One  ought  to  be  able  to  speak  of  the  cohorts 
of  Rome,  the  armies  of  Grecian  republics,  the  levee  en 
masse  of — of — well,  no  consequence.  However,  one  could 
study  the  subject. 

And  he  was  fascinated  by  this  idea  of  long  days  spent 
in  quiet  concentrated  study.  He  would  sit  here,  using  the 
table  or  the  book-rest,  surrounded  by  learned  volumes ;  from 
time  to  time  Mrs.  Jackson  would  bring  him  light  refresh- 
ment, and  the  last  thing  at  night,  finding  him  still  at  it, 

388 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

she  would  very  likely  say,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  but 
aren't  you  overdoing  it?"  And  he  would  reply,  quite  gen- 
tly, "No,  Mrs.  Jackson.  One  must  not  think  of  oneself, 
when  one  is  working  for  one's  fatherland." 

After  luncheon  he  went  round  to  the  London  Library, 
and  made  inquiries  about  their  system  of  lending  books. 
The  Library  clerks  told  him  that  he  might  either  pay  an 
annual  subscription,  or  become  a  life  member  by  planking 
down  a  lump  sum. 

"Oh — ah — I  see.  By  the  year — and  leave  off  when- 
ever I  please;  or  stump  up,  and  have  the  right  for  ever?" 

The  clerks  had  put  him  in  a  dilemma.  If  he  did  not 
accept  the  life  membership,  it  would  seem  that  he  secretly 
doubted  whether  he  would  pursue  his  studious  habits  for 
any  length  of  time.  On  the  other  hand,  it  would  be  a  pity 
to  waste  so  large  a  sum  of  money. 

"Well — ah,  I  won't  decide  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 
I'll  go  away  and  think  about  it." 

He  walked  across  St.  James's  Park,  and  went  into  the 
Army  &  Navy  Stores  to  buy  some  new  pyjamas. 

Presently  he  was  upstairs  in  the  hosiery  department,  talk- 
ing confidentially  to  one  of  the  salesmen. 

"Hitherto  I  have  had  rather  a  dread  of  cotton,  don't 
you  know.  They  say  it  strikes  so  cold.  But  I  am  now 
altering  nearly  all  my  old  customs,  and  it  has  occurred  to 
me  that  these  woollen  things  are  stuffy  and  oppressive — 
especially  in  this  warm  weather.  The  fact  is,  I  perspire 
somewhat  freely  at  night;  so  I  thought " 

Lenny  paused.  A  young  woman  was  standing  quite  close 
and  smiling  at  him  archly.  When  he  looked  at  her,  she 
came  forward  and  shook  hands. 

"Mr.  Calcraft,  don't  say  that  you  have  forgotten  Joyce 
Pemberton !" 

"Is  it  likely?"  and  he  beamed  at  her,  and  pressed  her 
389 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

nice  soft  little  hand.     Nevertheless  he  had  indeed  utterly 
forgotten  her. 

"Folkestone!"  she  said,  laughing.  "You  were  so  awfully 
kind  to  mother  and  me." 

"How  is  your  mother?     I  hope  she  keeps  her  health." 

"Very  well,  thank  you.  She's  here  somewhere.  Come 
and  find  her." 

"Delighted!  And  then  you  must  both  let  me  give  you 
tea." 

Going  upstairs,  Miss  Pemberton  glanced  at  Lenny  slyly, 
and  after  a  mischievous  laugh  whispered  "I  don't  believe 
you  really  remember  me;"  and  with  her  arm  she  lightly 
pushed  against  his  elbow. 

Then  it  all  came  back  to  him.  Folkestone — four  years 
ago — on  the  pier.  He  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
young  lady  and  her  mamma,  taken  them  for  a  drive,  bought 
theatre  tickets,  and  so  on.  This  Miss  Pemberton  was  the 
jolly  flapper  who  pushed  against  him — arm  to  arm — in 
such  a  friendly  fashion,  at  the  concert.  He  had  liked  it 
then;  and  he  liked  it  now. 

While  they  passed  from  department  to  department,  search- 
ing for  mamma,  he  scrutinized  his  lively  little  companion. 
She  was  now  grown-up,  fully  developed;  yet  there  was 
something  of  the  flapper  lingering — as  if  unwilling  to  re- 
linquish all  the  seductive  charms  of  adolescence,  she  had 
her  hair  in  a  ball  on  her  neck,  and  wore  a  short  dress 
that  showed  her  ankles.  And  she  herself  was  wonderfully 
fresh  and  young,  shedding  all  round  her  the  healthy  at- 
mosphere of  youth.  Her  mouth  seemed  hard — almost  old 
— when  her  face  was  in  repose.  But  her  mobile  features 
scarcely  ever  rested  themselves.     Great  animation. 

Soon  mamma  had  been  found,  and  they  were  all  three 
seated  at  a  table  in  the  refreshment  room,  enjoying  their  tea, 
and  chatting  away  most  comfortably. 

390 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"What  a  surprise,"  drawled  Mrs.  Pemberton.  "When 
Joyce  said  'Here's  Mr.  Calcraft,'  I  said  'Never!' " 

Mrs.  Pemberton  was  a  faded  woman  of  forty-five,  who 
must  once  have  been  handsome,  and  who  at  the  present 
time  wore  rather  too  much  powder  on  her  nose.  Obviously 
she  was  quite  common — not  really  a  lady;  but  she  had  an 
affectation  of  extreme  refinement,  speaking  languidly  and 
drawlingly,  and  yet  pronouncing  her  words  with  laborious 
accuracy.  However,  she  made  herself  very  pleasant  to 
Lenny,  treating  him  as  though  he  was  a  trusted  friend. 

"Joyce,"  said  Mrs.  Pemberton,  ";s  stage-struck.  I  shall 
try  to  keep  her  off  the  boards;  but  if  it  is  her  vocation, 
what  is  one  to  do?"     And  she  sighed.     "Heigh-ho!" 

Lenny  noticed  that  she  even  pronounced  the  sigh.  She 
said  "Heigh-ho"  quite  distinctly. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  daughter,  "Miss  Pem- 
berton may  hit  upon  a  more  conventional  vocation." 

"Really,"  drawled  the  elderly  lady,  "you  mustn't  call 
her  Miss  Pemberton.  We  haven't  reached  that  yet.  It 
would  make  me  feel  so  fearfully  ancient;"  and  she  gave  a 
thin  laugh.     "No,  go  on  calling  her  Joyce." 

Lenny  had  never  called  her  Joyce;  but  he  did  so  now 
with  pleasure.  Joyce — such  an  unusual  name,  almost  bi- 
zarre, but  somehow  attractive!  Sitting  smiling,  with  his 
head  slightly  on  one  side,  he  looked  at  the  owner  of  the 
odd  name. 

She  had  brown  hair,  with  a  reddish  tinge  in  it;  her  eyes 
were  brownish,  speckled  with  darker  colour,  very  bright; 
her  teeth  were  good  but  large,  especially  the  two  middle 
ones — and  perhaps  these  big  teeth  occasioned  the  hard,  al 
most  forbidding  set  of  her  mouth,  when  she  firmly  closed  it. 
Her  lips  were  red  and  moist. 

The  two  ladies  permitted  him  to  drive  them  home  in  a 
taxicab,  and  he  saw  that  their  house  was  small  and  shabby 

391 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

— the  smallest  house  of  a  poor  road  between  Earl's  Court 
and  Hammersmith.  Joyce  volunteered  the  information  that 
mother  let  it  furnished  whenever  she  could  secure  a  re- 
sponsible tenant. 

"We  won't  ask  you  in  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Pemberton 
grandly.     "But  do  please  come  and  visit  us  soon." 

Availing  himself  of  this  invitation,  Lenny  paid  a  visit 
on  the  following  afternoon,  and  another  visit  two  days  aft- 
erwards. 

His  third  visit  was  marred  by  the  presence  of  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  the  family,  to  whom  Lenny  took  an  instinct- 
ive dislike.  This  young  man — by  name  Yorke  Browning — 
was  black-haired;  and  sallow-complexioned,  except  for  his 
chin,  which  showed  the  dark,  bluish  tints  of  an  irrepres- 
sible beard.  He  told  Lenny  that  he  had  always  been  com- 
pelled to  shave  twice  a  day.  Further  autobiographical  notes 
that  he  let  fall  were  to  the  effect  that  he  had  been  a  so- 
licitor's clerk,  and  had  then  gone  on  the  stage,  working 
first  "at  the  halls"  and  now  "in  the  legitimate" — line,  low 
comedy.  For  the  rest  he  was  amiable,  slangy,  would-be- 
facetious. 

He  talked  to  Joyce  in  a  familiar  chaffing  manner  that 
Lenny  considered  objectionable. 

"How's  her  High  and  Mightiness?  How's  Joycey- 
poicey?  I  say,  old  girl,  Sir  Herbert  Tree  is  putting  up 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  nobody  knows  who  he's  going  to 
get  for  his  Juliet.  P'raps  you  know,  eh?  Sure  to  be  some- 
one choice.     Ha-ha!     What  rhymes  with  choice?" 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Yorke." 

Lenny  learned,  after  a  little  of  this  sort  of  conversation, 
that  Mrs.  Pemberton  had  not  been  able  to  keep  her  daugh- 
ter altogether  off  the  boards.  During  the  spring  Miss 
Joyce  had  been  round  the  provinces,  playing  a  small  part  in 
a  company  of  which  Yorke  Browning  was  a  member;  and 

392 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

now,  after  attending  some  elocution  classes,  she  pined  for 
an  opportunity  of  essaying  a  big  part  before  a  London  au- 
dience. 

"There,"  said  Mrs.  Pemberton  languidly.  "Do  leave  her 
alone,  Yorke;"  and  she  turned  to  Lenny  and  sighed. 
"Heigh-ho!  What  are  we  to  do  with  this  child,  Mr.  Cal- 
craft?" 

"Give  the  kid  a  chance,"  said  Yorke  Browning,  with  a 
grin.     "Let  her  have  her  matinee." 

"Yes,  thank  you  for  nothing,"  said  Joyce.  "If  you'll 
pay  the  bill,  we'll  talk  about  it;"  and  her  eyes  flashed 
angrily,  and  her  mouth  had  that  hard,  almost  cruel  look. 

"Oh,  do  leave  her  alone,"  drawled  Mrs.  Pemberton. 
Then,  again  turning  to  the  guest  of  honour,  she  spoke  sigh- 
ingly of  a  mother's  cares.  "When  her  father  died  she 
was  a  little  tot,  Mr.  Calcraft — and  I  was  silly  enough  to 
think  she'd  always  be  the  same  size.  Heigh-ho!  These 
children!  One  day  it  is  'Mummy,  do  buy  me  a  hoop.' 
And  next  day — as  it  appears — it  is  'Mother,  will  you  un- 
derstand that  I'm  old  enough  to  know  my  own  mind.' 
Joyce  has  shot  up  like  a  giant's  beanstalk,  and  she  defies  me. 
I'm  sure  /  don't  know  what  to  do  with  her." 

Lenny  felt  an  absurd  inclination  to  say,  "Lend  her  to 
me  for  a  fortnight;"  but  of  course  he  said  nothing  of  the 
kind.  He  looked  across  the  small  room  at  Joyce,  whose 
features  immediately  relaxed. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  rising  and  coming  over  to  sit  by 
Lenny,  "you're  keeping  Mr.  Calcraft  all  to  yourself,  and 
I  don't  call  it  a  bit  fair." 

"Oh — ah — really — what?"  Lenny  rolled  his  head. 
"Have  I — ah — been  neglectful?" 

Mr.  Yorke  Browning  plunged  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
turned  up  his  blue  chin,  and  stared  at  the  ceiling,  lie 
seemed  to  be  at  once  amused,  annoyed,  and  disgusted. 

393 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

About  three  weeks  after  this,  on  an  afternoon  when  Joyce 
was  out,  Mrs.  Pemberton  and  Mr.  Browning  sat  at  tea 
together  and  had  a  very  serious  talk  about  her. 

"Yorke,"  said  Mrs.  Pemberton,  with  much  less  drawl 
than  usual,  "I  don't  quite  like  the  way  Joyce  is  going  about 
with  Mr.  Calcraft." 

"Don't  you?"  said  Yorke.  "How  d'you  think  /  like 
it?"    And  he  laughed  morosely. 

"Well,  although,  as  you  know  very  well,  I  have  never 
countenanced   your  engagement " 

Yorke  laughed  again.  "Your  not  countenancing  it 
would  have  made  a  fat  lot  of  difference  to  Joyce,  I  don't 
think." 

Mrs.  Pemberton  bridled,  and  called  Yorke  to  order. 
"That  is  scarcely  respectful." 

"I  mean  no  disrespect,"  said  Yorke.  "You've  always 
been  my  friend.  But,  Mrs.  Pemberton,  we  reap  what  we 
sow.  Your  mistake  with  Joyce  has  been  not  bringing  her 
up  strict  enough." 

"What  can  one  do?  My  dear  mother  used  to  punish 
me  severely." 

"And  I  wish  you'd  done  the  same  for  Joyce." 

"The  times  are  changed." 

"Well  then,  Joyce  is  a  product  of  the  times.  That's 
just  about  her  ticket."  And  Yorke  laughed  sardonically. 
"But  don't  you  fret,  Mrs.  Pemberton.  Joyce  isn't  going 
to  come  to  any  harm  this  journey.  Joyce  knows  her  way 
about." 

"I  believe  Mr.  Calcraft  is  a  man  of  large  means;  and, 
of  course,  if  one  could  be  sure  that  his  intentions  are  per- 
fectly honourable " 

"I'm  sorry  for  him  if  they  aren't." 

"Yorke!  You  mean  you'd  avenge — you'd  bring  him 
to  book?" 

394. 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

"No,  I'd  leave  him  to  Joyce.  There  wouldn't  be  much 
stuffing  left  when  she'd  done  with  him." 

"Of  course  if  he  truly  wishes  to  marry  her!" 

"I'm  sorry  for  him  if  he  does.  I'm  sorry  for  him  either 
way." 

Mrs.  Pemberton  protested.  She  could  not  allow  any- 
body to  adopt  this  tone  when  speaking  of  her  daughter. 

"Oh,  come  off  the  grass,"  said  Yorke  Browning,  with 
sudden  irritability.  "We're  tiled  in.  If  I  mayn't  speak 
open  now,  when  may  I?  For  all  you  know,  it's  your  fu- 
ture son-in-law  addressing  you." 

He  had  got  up  from  his  chair;  and  he  walked  about  the 
shabby  little  room,  plunged  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
spoke  openly. 

"Imprimis,  Joyce  has  got  the  devil's  own  temper.  I 
dessay  you  know  that  better  than  me.  Her  husband  will 
have  to  watch  it,  if  he  don't  want  his  eyes  clawed  out.  But 
I  don't  know  as  Joyce  ever  intends  to  marry.  It  doesn't 
come  into  her  scheme  of  life." 

"Yorke,  how  can  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  the  other  thing  either — that  is,  not 
necessarily.  Joyce  is  a  product  of  the  times — and  her  the- 
ory is  to  spare  expense.  As  to  me  I  I'm  not  going  to  get 
in  her  light.  I've  been  hard  hit  by  Joyce — I  was  fonder  of 
her  than  I've  ever  been  of  anybody;  and  you  can't  say  but 
what  /  played  the  straight  game  with  her.  But  the  up- 
to-date  position  is  this.  I  don't  know  if  I'm  engaged  to 
Joyce  or  not.  I  don't  know  if  I  want  to  be  engaged,  or 
wouldn't  rather  be  clean  off  with  it.  One  thing — she  isn't 
going  to  fool  me  any  more.  There's  plenty  of  fish  in  the 
sea.  She  said  to  me,  last  Monday,  'Yorke,  wait  till  you 
can  come  and  tell  me  you're  earning  big  money — and  we'll 
talk  then.'  But  I  told  her  flat,  'Perhaps,  when  that  day 
comes,  I'll  carry  my  big  money  round  the  corner.'  " 
26  395 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Don't  be  hard  on  her,  Yorke.  She  doesn't  mean  half 
what  she  says." 

"No,  I  hope  she  doesn't — nor  a  quarter  of  it.  I  tell 
you,  when  Jo)'ce  fairly  lets  fly,  it's  blood-curdling.  You 
wonder  wherever  she  got  the  language  from." 

"She  didn't  get  it  from  me,"  said  Mrs.  Pemberton. 

"Not  much ;"  and  Yorke  laughed  good-humouredly.  "No, 
the  way  I  explain  it  is,  that  if  ever  Joyce  hears  a  real 
nasty  bit  in  a  play  or  a  book — a  bit  that  most  people  want 
to  forget  as  soon  as  possible — Joyce  learns  it  by  heart,  and 
stores  it  up  for  future  use." 

"Oh,  no,  you  wrong  her,  Yorke.  It's  only  her  hot  tem- 
per.    Her  father  was  quick  to " 

"Did  she  ever  give  you  the  true  particulars  of  why  she 
left  the  company  in  such  a  hurry?  .  .  .  No,  I  don't 
suppose  she  did." 

And  Mr.  Browning  related  how  Joyce  had  "let  fly"  with 
overpowering  eloquence  of  invective  at  the  leading  lady; 
and  how  when  the  manager  tried  to  come  to  the  rescue  of 
his  ewe  lamb,  Joyce  let  fly  at  him  also.  "I  tell  you,  it 
made  the  scene  shifters  shiver." 

"And — and   did  the  manager  ask  Joyce — to  go?" 

"You  bet." 

"Heigh-ho!"  said  Mrs.  Pemberton.  "Joyce  never  told 
me*  but  I  confess  I  suspected  it." 

And  although  Yorke  Browning,  when  speaking  openly, 
uttered  such  disparaging  words  about  his  sweetheart,  they 
were  perhaps  well  within  the  mark.  For,  if  Joyce  was 
truly  a  product  of  the  times,  she  offered  abundant  evidence 
that  the  times  need  mending.  All  that  was  feminine  in 
this  young  lady  seemed  to  be  the  instinct  that  sex  itself 
is  an  asset,  which  may  prove  highly  valuable  or  practically 

396 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

valueless,  in  accordance  with  the  clever  or  the  foolish  method 
of  its  realization. 

She  firmly  believed  that  nature  had  graced  her  person 
with  certain  charms;  but  when  she  looked  at  them  in  the 
glass,  she  was  less  like  a  maiden  gladdened  by  the  sight  of 
her  beauty  than  like  a  merchant  considering  his  stock  in 
trade.  All  this — the  brown  hair,  the  animated  face,  and  the 
shapely  little  figure — comprised  what  Joyce  had  to  take  to 
market. 

If  fate  was  leading  Lenny  now,  it  had  led  him  upon  a 
perilous  path.  Could  he  have  guessed  it,  this  sordid  little 
girl  was  the  most  dangerous,  the  most  deadly  dangerous 
companion  to  him  in  his  present  mental  condition. 


XL 


OF  an  evening  they  often  went  to  the  play — upper 
circle,  morning  dress.  London  was  empty  now, 
with  the  dog  days  approaching,  and  one  could  al- 
ways get  seats  at  any  theatre  without  the  bother  of  booking 
them  in  advance. 

Before  the  play  they  used  to  dine  at  some  unfashionable 
restaurant  where  you  were  sure  of  a  well-cooked  dinner 
and  a  sound  bottle  of  champagne;  and,  seated  at  their  table, 
pleasantly  hobnobbing  together,  they  looked  like  a  benev- 
olent uncle  and  a  bouncing  schoolgirl  niece. 

"Joyce,"  and  he  would  lean  forward  across  the  table, 
"are  you  enjoying  your  little  self?" 

"So-so,"  said  Joyce. 

"Are  you  sorry  that  you  have  to  put  up  with  an  old 
fogey  like  me?  I  suppose  that's  what  I  really  seem  to 
you?" 

Joyce  sipped  her  champagne,  and  smiled  archly. 

''Now,  now,  Lenny — fishing,  fishing!  Always  fishing 
for  compliments." 

"But  I  don't  catch  many,  Joyce,"  and  he  rolled  his  head 
and  blinked  his  eyes.  "Please  say  that  you  might  have  had 
to  put  up  with  a  worse  escort.  Say  1  don't  look  absolutely 
repulsive." 

"Oh,  you'd  pass  in  a  crowd;"  and  Joyce  laughed  mis- 
chievously and  tantalizingly. 

In  her  simple  little  frock  and  common  hat,  with  eyes 
3m 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Sparkling  and  cheeks  flushed  by  the  wine,  she  seemed  to 
him  rather  adorable.  He  pushed  his  foot  further  forward, 
tacitly  inviting  her  to  touch  him  with  her  neat  little  ankles. 

Of  an  afternoon  they  used  to  meet  by  appointment  and 
walk  about  the  streets.  Once  he  took  her  to  a  picture  gal- 
lery in  Grafton  Street;  but  Joyce  was  not  amused.  She 
said,  "If  this  is  an  exhibition,  I  prefer  the  shop  windows." 

During  their  second  walk  he  bought  her  a  yellow  straw 
hat  with  purple  feathers.  She  stood  stock  still  on  the  pave- 
ment, admiring  it,  and  he  said  "Joyce,  let  me  buy  it  for 
you  as  a  present.     Come  inside." 

She  consented  without  demurring.  Then,  just  as  he  was 
leading  her  into  the  shop,  he  hesitated  and  became  grave. 

"But,  I  say,  Joyce,  do  you  think  your  mother  will  like 
it?" 

"I  don't  care  whether  she  likes  it  or  not.  She  won't  have 
to  wear  it." 

"No,  but  I  mean,  do  you  think  she'll  approve  of  my  ac- 
tion in  getting  it  for  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I'd  better  be  on  the  safe 
side — I  won't  tell  her." 

"What!"  said  Lenny,  gratified.  "A  little  secret  between 
you  and  me,  eh?" 

Joyce  laughed  gaily.  "Yes.  And  I  don't  care  how  many 
little  secrets  of  the  same  kind.  .  .  .  That's  only  my 
fun.  Of  course  I  shouldn't  allow  you  to  give  me  anything 
else — at  least  not  for  ages." 

Gradually  she  unfolded  to  him  the  bulk  of  her  hopes  and 
ambitions.  She  wanted  to  be  an  actress,  a  great  actress, 
the  most  successful  and  highly  paid  actress  of  the  hour. 

"Believe  me,  Lenny,  I  feel  it's  in  me.  Yorke  Browning 
says  so.  He  says  I'm  mimetic.  Things  make  an  impression 
on  me.  What  I've  heard  said  I  can  say  again.  It's  tem- 
p'rament.     I  have  the  temp'rament." 

m 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Well,"  said  Lenny  smiling,  "I  wouldn't  be  too  sure 
of  that.  Tm  not  an  actor;  but  let  me  tell  you  a  few 
facts  about  the  way  the  glamour  of  the  theatre  used  to 
influence  me  at  one  period — before  I  reviewed  my  opinions 
and  reformed  them  by  the  light  of  experience.  I  can 
tell  you " 

"No.  Another  time;"  and  Joyce  rattled  on.  "Be- 
lieve me,  Lenny,  it's  in  me.  I  could  be  big — right  up 
there;"  and  she  pointed  towards  the  chimney-pots. 
"Give  me  the  chance,  and  I'll  wipe  the  floor  with  some  of 
your  seventy-quid-per-week  veterans."  She  was  always 
slangy  when  she  spoke  of  her  art.  "You  mayn't  credit 
me  with  it,  Lenny;  but  it's  there — it's  there  all  the  time." 

She  would  not  encourage  him  to  tell  her  his  hopes  and 
ambitions;  she  did  not  evince  the  faintest  interest  in  his 
private  affairs — with  one  exception.  She  drew  him  out  on 
the  subject  of  ways  and  means,  and  finally  learned  the 
exact  figures  of  his  annual  income. 

"How  you  do  go  on  about  what  things  cost!"  she  said 
mockingly.  "Talking  of  not  being  able  to  afford  this  and 
that!" 

"No  more  I  can." 

"If  I  were  you,  I'd  afford  anything  I  pleased;  I'd  never, 
never  stint  myself.  That's  the  value  of  having  heaps  of 
money.    And  you  know  very  well  you're  rolling  in  it." 

"Indeed  I'm  not  rolling  in  money.  I  haven't  more  than 
fourteen  hundred  a  year,  all  told." 

"Gammon!"  Joyce  stopped  short,  and  stared  at  him 
incredulously. 

"Gospel  truth.  Not  a  penny  more  than  fourteen  hundred 
to  rely  on." 

"Oh,  that  isn't  much;"  and  Joyce  pouted.  "No — it 
can't  be  called  rolling."  Her  voice  had  become  serious  in 
tone,    and    she   walked   on    slowly;   but    then,    brightening 

A00 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

again,  she  spoke  as  gaily  as  usual.  "Anyhow,  there's  a  lot 
of  spending  in  fourteen  hundred.  I  only  wish  mother  and 
I  had  half  your  complaint." 

Lenny  was  not  sorry  to  avail  himself  of  the  opportunity 
for  frankness,  because  the  Bond  Street  and  Piccadilly  win- 
dows were  sometimes  embarrassing  to  him.  Joyce  admiring 
expensive  jewellery  was  adorable.  Lenny  felt  fascinated 
while  she  stood  with  her  little  nose  close  to  the  plate-glass, 
and  her  brown  eyes  staring  at  a  seven  thousand  guinea  tiara. 
That  was  all  right.  But  when  it  came  to  nick-nacks  at 
anything  from  forty  shillings  to  twenty  pounds,  it  began 
to  be  troublesome.  He  had  already  bought  her  several 
trifles;  and  now  that  she  knew  the  state  of  his  resources, 
she  would  understand  that  he  could  not  dash  into  every 
shop  and  bring  out  everything  that  caught  her  fancy. 

Yet  here  she  was  again — after  the  revelation, — with  her 
brown  eyes  glued  on  a  small  and  vicious-looking  sapphire 
bangle. 

"Come  along,  Joyce.  .  .  .  The,  ah,  odour  of  this 
creosote  pavement  is  most  unpleasant — and  the,  ah,  dust  is 
getting  down  my  throat." 

"Well,  you  are  in  a  hurry!" 

Thinking  about  it  afterwards,  he  felt  that  she  must  have 
her  bangle — if  it  wasn't  atrociously  expensive.  He  went 
back  to  the  shop  by  himself,  and  came  away  with  the  bangle 
in  his  pocket.  He  would  make  use  of  it  by  inducing  her 
to  give  him  another  treat. 

It  was  a  treat  when  she  came  to  his  rooms  in  Albert 
Street,  and  she  did  not  give  him  this  treat  too  frequently. 

"Joyce,"  he  said,  on  the  following  afternoon,  "come  to 
tea  with  me — at  my  own  place.  I  have  got  something  there 
for  you.     A  surprise!" 

She  beamed ;  and  then  held  up  a  finger  warningly.  "But 
no  rot!"     And  her  mouth  looked  very  hard  and  firm.     "If 

401 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

I  do  come,  it's  on  the  understanding  you  don't  try  any 
nonsense." 

What  an  idea! 

He  had  told  Mrs.  Jackson  to  lay  out  tea-things  for  two 
and  to  provide  some  cakes  and  fruits;  and  Joyce  was 
pleased  with  his  delicacies.  He  left  her  in  the  front  room; 
and  then,  coming  back,  displayed  the  bangle  case,  but  re- 
frained from  immediately  handing  it  to  her. 

"Oh,  I  say,   Lenny.     Another  present!" 

"Yes." 

"It's  too  bad  of  you — and  I  told  you  not  another  for 
ages.     .     .     .    Well,  aren't  I  to  have  it?" 

"Joyce,  if  you're  pleased  with  it,  you  must  give  me  a 
kiss." 

"Yes,  I  will." 

She  was  pleased  with  it,  and  he  had  his  kiss. 

But  after  tea  she  put  the  bangle  down,  pushed  it  aside, 
and  pouted.  "It's  all  very  well,  Lenny — but,  oh,  if  you 
want  to  give  me  a  real  present — to  make  me  really  fond  of 
you — why  don't  you  help  me  in  my  profession?" 

"How  could  I?" 

"Give  me  my  chance." 

And  then  Joyce  sketched  out  what  he  might  do  for  her. 
No  vast  sums  of  money  would  be  required.  It  would  be 
nothing  to  him — not  a  year's  income,  very  likely, — if  the 
worst  came  to  the  worst,  and  the  whole  speculation  failed. 
He  should  let  her  have  her  matinee,  and  then  when  she 
had  made  her  hit,  he  should  get  her  a  good  engagement  by 
investing  capital  in  some  new  play.  "It's  done  every  day, 
Lenny.  Wagstaff  always  finances  his  own  plays — that  is, 
gets  somebody  else  to  do  it  for  him." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Lenny,  rather  coldly.  "This  is 
a  large  order." 

"Is  it?"     And  Joyce  smiled  languishingly.     "There  are 

402 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

people  who  would  be  glad  to  do  it  for  me — if  I  wasn't  too 
proud  to  let  them.    .    .     .    Well,  Lenny?" 

"I'll  think  about  it.     I  can't  say  any  more." 

Doubtless  he  was  more  or  less  thinking  about  it  for  the 
rest  of  Joyce's  visit,  and  when  she  was  going  he  spoke 
hesitatingly. 

"Joyce.     If  I  ever  did  it " 

"Did  what?" 

"What  you  suggested.  If  I  ever  did  it,  I  should  expect 
you,  young  lady,  to  be  very  nice." 

"Well,  aren't  I  nice?  Lots  of  people  are  good  enough 
to  tell  me  I'm  fairly  nice." 

"Yes,  but  to  me  personally." 

"So  I  would  be — but  no  rot." 

She  returned  to  the  subject  of  her  enterprising  proposal 
during  subsequent  visits,  and  once  or  twice  she  consented 
to  sit  on  his  knee  while  they  chatted  about  it. 

"Joyce,"  he  said,  "don't  tease  me.  You  promised  me  a 
kiss  this  afternoon." 

"Yes,  I'll  keep  my  promise." 

And  he  would  have  forcibly  extracted  a  prompt  fulfil- 
ment of  the  promise. 

But  she  held  up  her  finger.  "Lenny,  you  see  that  door. 
If  you  can't  behave  yourself,  I'll  go  straight  through  it." 

"Oh,  Joyce!" 

"You  must  wait.  .  .  .  But  don't  sit  with  your  tongue 
out,  like  a  dog  waiting  for  a  bone;"  and  she  laughed. 
"Though  this  is  a  case  of  'Trust  and  Paid  for!'" 

"Joyce,  I'm  afraid  you're  a  dreadful  tease."  And  after 
what  he  considered  adequate  delay,  he  appealed  to  her 
plaintively.     "May  I  kiss  you  now?" 

"No.  I  said  I'd  kiss  you — not  you  me.  There's  a  great 
difference.  .  .  .  Now!"  And  she  lightly  brushed  his 
cheek  with  her  soft  warm  lips.    "There.    Good-bye.   Many 

403 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

thanks.  I  must  be  off."  And  she  got  up.  "Go  on  think- 
ing about  it;  and  be  an  old  dear  in  the  end." 

"Joyce,  I  can't  let  you  go."  He  had  grabbed  at  her  hand, 
and  was  endeavouring  to  detain  her.  "When  you  look  at 
me  like  that,  I  feel  there's  nothing  I  can  refuse  you." 

Then  she  condescended  to  postpone  her  departure  and 
to  sit  on  his  knee  again. 

"Lenny,"  she  said,  "you  will  do  it."  And  she  told  him 
that  she  relied  on  him  absolutely;  she  counted  it  as  done 
already;  she  would  be  heartbroken  if  he  attempted  to  back 
out.  "Dear  old  boy,  you're  going  to  give  little  Joyce  her 
chance,  and  little  Joyce  is  going  to  be  very  fond  of  you." 

And  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  wasn't  a  matter  of  going 
to  be,  but  of  is;  for  she  was  really  nice,  giving  him  a  fore- 
taste of  ineffable  niceness,  making  him  throb  and  thrill 
quite  in  the  grand  old  way.  She  continued  to  be  utterly 
adorable,  and  remained  sitting  on  his  knee,  until  something 
unfortunate  occurred. 

This  was  the  entrance  of  the  stupid  maid-servant,  who 
had  come  to  fetch  away  the  tea-things. 

Joyce  sprang  up  angrily;  her  brown  eyes  blazed,  and 
she  startled  Lenny  with  the  vigour  of  the  reproof  that 
she  administered  to  the  intruder.  She  said  that  Adelaide 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself  for  so  imprudently  enter- 
ing a  sitting-room  without  first  knocking  at  the  door.  "I 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing!" 

Lenny  had  become  cognizant  of  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Jack- 
son, whose  aspect  habitually  exhibited  cheerfulness  and  sat- 
isfaction, now  looked  at  him  glumly  and  distressfully.  Pie 
did  not  ask  her  what  had  caused  this  deterioration  in  her 
appearance,  but  she  explained  it  voluntarily. 

She  said  that  her  husband  had  deputed  her  to  speak  to 
him  about  "that  young  person."     She  said  everybody  had 

404 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

noticed  things,  everybody  was  passing  remarks  about  them. 
Adelaide,  after  what  she  had  actually  seen — one  chair  serv- 
ing the  purpose  of  two  chairs — well,  Adelaide  passed  inev- 
itable remarks. 

"We  aren't  like  Mr.  Steers,"  said  Mrs.  Jackson.  "Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Steel  perhaps  wasn't  as  particular  as  we  are — 
but  Mr.  Jackson  and  myself  have  fought  hard  to  keep  up 
the  good  name  of  the  house.  It's  always  been  understood 
by  our  gentlemen.  .  .  .  Why,  the  Earl  himself,  all  the 
time  he  was  with  us,  never  once  done  so.  .  .  .  And  if 
I  may  say  it,  sir,  such  an  audacious  little " 

"That  will  do,  Mrs.  Jackson,"  Lenny  raised  his  hand 
impressively.  "You  may  soon  regret  what  you  are  say- 
ing," and  he  blinked  his  eyes.  "The  young  lady  is  going 
to  be  my  wife." 

Mrs.  Jackson  candidly  confessed  her  astonishment. 

"Don't  you  think  I'm  wise?"  asked  Lenny  anxiously. 

"Oh,  it's  not  for  me  to  say,  sir.  .  .  .  But  I  should 
have  thought,  if  you  was  marrying,  you'd  want  one  that 
would  make  you  comfortable  like — not  one  that  would  call 
for  looking  after." 

"This  is  the  one  I  want,"  said  Lenny.  "It  is  her  youth, 
as  much  as  anything  else,  that  has  decided  me  to  marry 
her." 

Truly  he  had  made  up  his  mind  only  that  morning; 
and  Mrs.  Jackson  was  the  first  person  to  hear  of  it.  He 
had  not  even  told  Joyce  yet. 


XL! 


HE  had  been  thinking  about  the  theatrical  speculation, 
and  was  feeling  considerable  repugnance  to  Joyce's 
scheme,  when  this  other  notion  presented  itself. 

Was  it  too  late?  Was  he  too  old  to  marry?  He  might 
have  thought  so  till  recently,  but  he  did  not  think  so  now. 
George  Verinder  and  he  were  of  the  same  age;  and  with 
his  own  eyes  he  had  seen  George  united  to  a  delightful 
young  girl. 

Then  almost  immediately  it  seemed  to  him  as  the  solu- 
tion of  all  his  difficulties.  This  other  young  girl — as  young 
as  George's  girl — had  been  sent  to  him  by  destiny.  It  was 
light  in  darkness,  safety  after  doubt;  it  was  the  new  life 
taking  the  most  beautiful  of  all  conceivable  forms. 

Of  course  there  were  drawbacks.  Where  are  there  not? 
Joyce's  mother  was  common,  her  friends  were  common; 
but,  after  all,  one  does  not  necessarily  marry  the  mother 
and  the  friends.  He  must  remove  her  from  those  influences. 
And,  again  after  all,  what  the  deuce  does  it  matter?  He 
never  was  a  snob;  he  never  had  harboured  any  rubbish 
about  class  distinctions — he  ought  to  consider  himself  thun- 
dering lucky  to  secure  a  really  nice  girl,  with  or  without  a 
pedigree.  Hang  pedigrees!  A  little  hard  cash  wouldn't 
have  come  amiss;  but  you  can't  have  everything.  As  to 
her  childish  ambitions — well,  he  would  not  of  course  allow 
her  to  go  on  the  stage.  No,  there  must  be  an  end  to  that 
nonsense.  He  was  opening  up  a  far  nobler  prospect  than 
that. 

406 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Dear  little  Joyce!  She  was  virtuous — quite  unassailably 
so.  Just  a  wee  bit  of  a  spitfire.  How  fiercely  she  spoke  to 
Adelaide!  But  that  needn't  frighten  him.  She  would  set- 
tle down  in  her  own  home,  with  her  own  servants ;  her  petu- 
lant humour  would  be  banished  by  gentle  influences,  re- 
fined society,  and,  above  all  else,  love.  What  a  thing  love 
is!     George  had  said  so — about  his  girl. 

Lenny  began  to  dream.  Once  again  his  thought  streamed 
boldly  into  the  future;  and,  as  used  to  happen  years  and 
years  ago,  unseen  things  were- as  real  as  things  seen. 

They  would  live  somewhere  in  the  country.  Some  tiny 
little  place  without  shops  or  pavements  or  traffic.  A  vil- 
lage— a  fishing  village  for  choice.  Perhaps  just  big  enough 
to  contain  some  sort  of  club  where  the  men  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood could  assemble  after  dinner;  and  a  golf  course; 
yes,  a  good  golf  course  handy — not  more  than  a  mile  or  two 
away.  Is  he  too  old  to  play  golf?  No;  men  of  seventy 
and  eighty  take  it  up.  It  is  invigorating;  it  is  a  medicine — 
the  doctors  say  so.  It  keeps  people  alive.  If  he  find  him- 
self unable  to  pick  up  the  knack  of  it,  he  can  still — like  old 
Reed — potter  about  the  links;  he  can  be  blown  at  by  the 
wholesome  sea  air,  be  toned  by  the  genial  sunshine;  he  can 
walk  round  after  the  men  who  are  able  to  play,  and  come 
back  sharp-set  to  the  snug  little  dinner  with  the  dear  little 
wife  waiting  for  him  in  the  candle-light. 

He  could  visualize  it  all  most  clearly — his  long  healthy 
happy  day;  and  if  he  did  not  also  visualize  the  dear  little 
wife  or  wonder  how  she  might  be  amusing  herself  while 
he  was  on  the  links,  she  became  vivid  and  strong  when, 
hastily  throwing  down  her  needlework,  she  tripped  through 
the  parlour  to  the  hall  and  welcomed  him  with  a  radiant 
smile. 

It  was  a  warmly  soothing  dream  that  left  behind  it  a 
dominant  idea.     So  dominant,  indeed,  that   it  shut  out  all 

IM 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

minor  mental  processes.  It  was  lord  of  his  mind,  and  the 
one  great  necessity  now  was  to  obey  it  with  promptness. 
He  felt  that  his  resolution  to  marry  Joyce  was  something 
which  it  would  be  as  improper  to  question  as  it  would  be 
impossible  to  shake. 

Miss  Pemberton's  poorly  furnished  house  did  not  possess 
a  telephone,  so  he  sent  a  telegraphic  message. 

"Stay   in    for   me   this   afternoon.      I   have   important 
news.    Lenny." 

A  slatternly  servant,  ushering  him  into  the  shabby  draw- 
ing-room, told  him  that  Mrs.  Pemberton  was  out;  and 
he  thought  himself  lucky  to  get  Joyce  all  to  himself. 

She  appeared  at  once,  looking  too  sweet  for  words,  just 
as  he  had  seen  her  in  his  dream. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "have  you  made  up  your  mind  at 
last?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her. 

She  ran  to  him  with  outstretched  hands.  "Oh,  you 
dear!  You  perfect  dear!"  And  she  gave  him  a  kiss,  with- 
out being  asked  for  this  favour. 

"Joyce,  my  pretty  one,  let's  sit  down,  and  talk  snugly. 
I  have  been  thinking  about  you  ever  since  I  saw  you  and 
you  were  so  nice  to  me.  You  are  far  too  nice  to  waste 
your  life  as  an  actress.  So  I've  come  to  the  conclusion 
that,  after  all,  you  are  not  going  on  the  stage." 

"Not  going  on  the  stage!     Indeed  I  am!" 

"No.     I  have  something  better  to  offer  you  than  that." 

"What  is  it?" 

He  smiled  at  her  fatuously.    "My  heart  and  hand." 

Her  cheeks  had  flushed,  and  the  lines  of  her  mouth  grew 
hard. 

408 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

"Lenny,  no  rot.     What  d'you  mean?" 

"I  mean  to  marry  you;"  and  he  opened  his  arms,  with 
the  intention  of  clasping  her  to  his  breast. 

Joyce  gave  him  a  violent  push  in  the  middle  of  his  waist- 
coat, and  sprang  away  from  him. 

"Lenny,  shut  up.  Don't  play  the  fool  about  this;"  and 
she  held  up  her  finger  warningly.  "This  is  serious.  I've 
counted  on  you — solid  as  the  Bible.  I  couldn't  stand  such 
a  disappointment.  I'd  never  forgive  you,  if  you  backed 
out." 

"But  my — my  dear  child!  I — I'm  not  backing  out;  I'm, 
ah,  coming  forward." 

"Gammon!  You're  old  enough  to  know  better  than 
to  talk  such  stuff."  Her  cheeks  reddened  still  more,  and 
her  eyes  blazed.  "Lenny,  I'm  not  good-tempered  when 
people  disappoint  me — and  if  you  make  me  angry,  I  shall 
tell  you  what  I  think  of  you." 

For  a  few  moments  she  paced  to  and  fro,  as  if  struggling 
to  suppress  excitement;  and  Lenny,  with  his  mouth  open, 
watched  her  stupidly.  He  had  been  so  completely  under 
the  dominion  of  a  fixed  idea,  that  obstacles  to  its  being  con- 
verted into  accomplished  fact  really  flabbergasted  him. 
Why  should  she  be  angry? — he  could  not  understand  what 
was  happening. 

"Lenny — I  won't  believe  it."  She  had  relaxed  the  lines 
about  her  lips,  and  she  came  to  him  cajolingly,  and  spoke 
with  affected  kindness.  "You  wouldn't  play  such  a  trick 
on  your  little  Joyce — after  she  has  trusted  you,  and  shown 
that  she  is  just  a  little  bit  fond  of  you." 

"Yes,  and  I'm  enormously  fond  of  you.  Don't  I  prove 
it  by  my  proposal?  And  I'm  ready — quite  anxious — to  tell 
your  mother  the  same  thing." 

For   a  little   while  longer  she  spoke  in   meek  entreat j 

409 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

'he  begged  him  not  to  act  the  giddy  goat,  not  to  talk  bosh, 
iiot  to  evade  the  carrying  out  of  what  she  declared  was 
a  solemn  bargain  between  them;  but  he  could  not  reassure 
her:  he  could  only  reiterate  his  explanation  that  the  silly 
theatrical  scheme  had  been  thrust  into  the  remote  back- 
ground by  the  delightful  connubial  scheme.  He  could  but 
confess  that  his  decision  was  unshakable. 

And  then  Joyce  let  fly  at  him. 

He  heard  then  exactly  what  he  seemed  to  the  eyes  of 
this  young  person  of  the  other  sex.  She  was  in  a  white 
fury  now,  and  vituperation  poured  from  her  with  torrential 
vigour. 

"So  be  it,"  he  muttered  piteously.  .  .  .  "Ah,  Joyce, 
I  take  it — from  this,  ah,  attack,  that  you  would  not  under 
any  conditions  care  to  marry  me." 

"Me — marry  you?"  And  she  laughed  with  bitter  scorn. 
"Sit  down  quiet  on  half  of  your  beggarly  fourteen  hundred 
a  year?  Me — who  hopes  and  intends  to  be  drawing  her 
hundred  quid  a  week — yes,  and  more!  But  I  wouldn't 
marry  you — no,  not  if  you  had  millions  a  year." 

"You,  ah,  certainly  encouraged  me  to  hope " 

"Encouraged  you !  I  asked  you  to  help  me — and  if  you'd 
done  it  like  a  man,  I'd  have  put  up  with  your  slobbering 
nonsense  as  part  of  the  bargain.  /  wouldn't  have  backed 
out — not   till   you   turned   me  sick." 

"Joyce,  for  pity's  sake!" 

He  had  lifted  his  hands  to  his  head,  and  they  sank  again 
feebly.     Now  he  stretched  them  out,  imploring  her  to  stop. 

"I  kissed  you,  didn't  I?  And  I  let  you  paw  me  about — 
though  I  wanted  to  call  out  for  a  basin.  And  now  you 
won't  pay  the  price.  But  I'm  to  marry  you.  Why  you 
aren't  like  a  man." 

She  was  dreadful  to  see,  clenching  her  fists,  lashing  her- 
self into  fiercer  rage — a  creature  common  as  dirt,  implac- 

410 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

ably  base,  compared  with  whom  those  jam  girls  at  the  Ef^ 
End  were  gentle  fairies. 

"It's  a  hospital  nurse  you  want — not  a  wife.  Somebody 
to  dress  you  and  keep  you  clean — and  tie  a  napkin  round 
your  neck  when  you  eat  your  food." 

To  Lenny  it  sounded  like  doom  speaking.  It  was  the 
unpitying  voice  of  youth  denouncing  age.  It  was  the  noc- 
turnal terror  personified,  and  torturing  him  in  broad  day- 
light. 

"Joyce,  don't — oh,  please,  don't  go  on." 

"Marry  you?    Me!" 

He  raised  his  hands,  with  the  gesture  of  some  poor  emas- 
culate wretch  whom  bullies  have  attacked  in  savage  violence, 
and  who  is  helpless  beneath  the  cruel  blows. 

uMe!"  And  she  gave  a  horrible  laugh.  "Look  at  me. 
Put  up  with  you!  Why  you're  rotten — not  half  alive — 
dead  and  decaying.  Just  something  ugly  left  by  the  road- 
side, because  Death  the  Scavenger  is  too  lazy  to  come  and 
clear  you  away." 

And  he  took  it  all  as  real,  believed  it  to  be  a  genuine 
and  unbiased  opinion — did  not  for  a  moment  understand 
that  these  were  scraps  which  she  had  put  together  from 
memory's  store. 

"Yes,  that's  right." 

He  felt  dazed  and  shattered,  and  he  was  moving  slowly 
and  heavily  towards  the  door. 

Joyce  had  rung  the  bell,  and  she  Jointed  at  the  door 
theatrically. 

He  sat  alone  in  his  room,  huddling  himself  in  his  big  arm- 
chair; and  when  the  shadows  deepened  all  about  him,  he 
did  not  rouse  himself  to  turn  on  the  electric  light.  The 
shadows  were  coming  to  him  thick  and  fast;  and  he  had 
no  spirit  left  to  go  on  fighting  them. 
27  ill 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

He  told  Mrs.  Jackson  that  she  was  not  to  prepare  any 
dinner  for  him,  and  that  he  did  not  desire  to  see  her  hus- 
band.    He  said  that  he  was  in  trouble. 

Mrs.  Jackson  came  to  him  during  the  evening  and  begged 
him  to  take  some  soup  or  some  sandwiches;  but  he  replied 
that  he  could  not  eat  anything  at  all. 

"I'm  sorry  to  see  you  so  low,  sir.  Shall  I  send  Mr. 
Jackson  to  fetch  a  doctor?    You  may  have  caught  a  chill." 

"No,"  he  said,  in  a  dull,  lifeless  tone.  "Doctors  can't 
help  me." 

"Then  what  is  it,  sir,  that's  troubling  you?  .  .  .  Not 
the  young  lady?" 

"Yes.     The  match  is  broken  off." 

"Permanent,  sir — or  perhaps  it's  nothing  but  a  little 
tiff?" 

"For  ever." 

Mrs.  Jackson's  honest  face  glowed  with  satisfaction. 
"Then  I  do  congratulate  you  now,  if  I  wasn't  able  to  this 
morning.     It's  the  best  day's  work  you  could  'a  done." 

"Think  so?"  said  Lenny,  in  the  same  dull  tone. 

He  was  suffering  from  shock  rather  than  from  grief. 
Two  things  had  shaken  him  before  this — the  conversation 
in  Dryden's  office,  and  the  death  of  Mrs.  Fletcher;  but  this 
third  thing,  the  scene  with  Joyce,  had  shaken  him  to  his 
foundations.  He  felt  broken,  done  for,  as  if  it  was  no  use 
trying  to  get  over  it. 


XLII 

TIME  was  passing;  but  Lenny  had  ceased  to  count  it. 
Once  or  twice  in  the  last  twelve  months  he  had  been 
greatly  worried  by  hints  that  the  Jacksons  intended 
before  long  to  retire  from  business.  What  on  earth  would 
happen  to  him  then?  He  sounded  Jackson  on  the  possibility 
of  his  retiring  with  them — that  is,  going  wherever  they 
went,  remaining  under  their  care,  enjoying  their  society 
as  a  paying  guest,  if  not  as  a  lodger.  But  Jackson  seemed 
in  doubt  as  to  whether  this  could  be  managed. 

The  fact  was  that  Lenny's  habits  would  probably  cause 
trouble  in  any  modest  country  household.  Mrs.  Jackson 
and  the  maid  had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  get  at  his  bed- 
room and  clean  it  before  night  fell.  He  got  up  fearfully 
late,  and  often  did  not  go  out  all  day.  He  would  half 
dress  himself  and  then  meander  from  room  to  room;  and 
when  Mrs.  Jackson  suggested  fresh  air,  he  told  her  that 
there  was  nothing  to  tempt  him  into  it. 

"Have  you  given  up  your  Turkish  baths,  sir?" 

"Yes,  I  have.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  know  if  one  mightn't 
do  me  good.     I'll  go  to-morrow — perhaps." 

He  needed  a  strong  stimulus  to  draw  him  out  of  doors; 
but  sometimes  a  newspaper  advertisement  would  catch  his 
fancy,  and  then,  after  brooding  over  its  promises,  he  roused 
himself  to  definite  effort.  Thus,  an  advertisement  about 
"manicuring  in  the  home  circle"  attracted  him  so  much 
that  he  sallied  forth  and  procured  a  compact  set  of  manicure 
instruments.     But   this   purchase   kept   him    indoors   for    a 

413 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

week.  Hour  after  hour  he  sat  polishing  his  nails,  anoint- 
ing them  with  pink  paste,  paring  and  tweaking  them  with 
artful  little  curved  nippers. 

He  was  tired  of  the  club;  and  would  never  have  gone 
to  it  if  Mrs.  Jackson  had  not  driven  him  there.  But  at 
intervals  Mrs.  Jackson  became  obdurate.  She  said  the  time 
had  come  when  she  must  and  would  give  the  two  rooms  a 
thorough  airing  and  cleaning,  and  Lenny  submitted  un- 
willingly enough  to  this  recurrent  nuisance. 

At  the  club,  people  were  rude  and  uncouth — especially 
one  man.  Lenny  talked  very  little,  but  if  he  could  secure 
listeners  he  would  still  tell  an  anecdote:  indeed  he  had  one 
story  that  he  was  quite  fond  of  telling.  It  was  a  true 
account  of  his  experiences  while  a  dentist  applied  local 
anaesthesia  to  the  lower  gums  and  extracted  two  prodigious 
stumps;  and  Lenny  always  wound  up  the  story  with  the 
same  words.  "Absolutely  no  pain — on  my  honour — from 
start  to  finish. " 

But  one  day  the  rude  man — the  enemy — said  brutally, 
"Can't  you  give  that  tale  a  holiday,  Calcraft?  Don't  you 
think  we've  heard  enough  about  your  false  teeth?"  And, 
although  the  man  plainly  meant  to  be  rude,  not  a  soul  took 
Lenny's  part  and  reproved  him. 

"They're  not  kind  to  me,"  Lenny  thought,  driving  home 
in  his  taxi.  "They're  hateful  to  me.  They're  a  lot  of 
pigs." 

When  he  walked  a  little  way  on  warm  afternoons,  he 
scrutinized  the  shop  windows,  vaguely  searching  for  novel 
articles  that  offered  comfort  or  safety.  In  this  manner 
he  bought,  on  different  occasions,  a  leather  pillow  filled  with 
poppies  to  make  him  sleep;  some  sound-resisting  mats  for 
the  landing  by  his  door;  and  a  marvellous  fire  escape,  which 
he  caused  to  be  affixed  to  the  window  of  his  bedroom.    The 

414 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

maid-servant  behaved  very  badly  in  regard  to  this  apparatus. 
When  Lenny  wished  to  see  if  it  worked  properly,  she  flatly 
refused  to  be  dropped  down  the  canvas  tube  from  the  first 
floor  to  the  back  yard;  and  he  was  so  huffed  with  her  that 
he  sent  her  to  Coventry  for  two  whole  days. 

The  pillow  of  poppies  was  a  failure.  It  did  not  make 
him  sleep,  and  yet  he  attributed  to  it  certain  puzzling, 
almost  inexplicable  properties.  It  seemed  to  have  a  power 
of  wafting  him  from  side  to  side  of  the  bed,  or  rather  to 
give  him  the  sensation  of  movement  when  he  knew  that 
he  had  not  really  moved. 

This,  however,  was  only  one  of  many  strange  sensations 
that  perplexed  him  as  he  lay  between  sleeping  and  waking. 
Strange  and  wonderful  sensations — some  of  them  pleasing 
and  others  distressing;  but,  good  or  bad,  they  possessed 
a  common  quality  of  intimacy,  even  of  sacredness.  They 
were  a  matter  which  he  must  not  speak  of  to  anyone.  Above 
all,  instinct  told  him  that  they  were  to  be  kept  from  the 
combined  obtuseness  and  inquisitiveness  of  these  doctors. 
The  doctors  had  proved  useless — no  more  of  their  interfer- 
ence for  him!  Whatever  he  suffered,  he  must  support  it 
in  silence.  It  must  be  kept  as  a  mysterious  secret  shared 
only  by  himself  and  his  pillow. 

His  best  sleep — his  only  true  oblivion — came  after  the 
early  breakfast;  and  it  was  for  this  reason  that  he  lay  so 
long  abed.  Surely  an  explanation  simple  enough  for  any- 
body! But  Mrs.  Jackson  was  so  dense  that  she  never 
seemed  able  to  grasp  it. 

The  reason  why  he  dressed  so  slowly  was  also  simple. 
He  could  not  dress  without  looking  at  himself  in  the  three- 
winged  glass  beneath  the  bedroom  window;  and  yet,  when- 
ever he  saw  his  reflection,  it  infallibly  checked  proceed- 
ings. 

415 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

He  did  not  count  time,  but  he  recognized  its  abominable 
work.  The  nasty  northern  light  filled  the  looking-glass, 
made  it  clear  as  crystal  and  merciless  as  a  truth-telling  girl. 

While  he  lifted  the  first  of  his  vests  to  put  it  over  his 
head,  he  saw  the  pitiable  shrinkage  of  the  once  superb  torso. 
His  collar  bones  showed  distinctly;  the  glory  of  his  massive 
shoulders  was  all  gone.  With  a  sigh  he  turned  away, 
to  put  on  the  other  vest  and  his  flannel  undershirt. 

Then  he  would  sink  into  a  chair  before  the  glass,  and 
study  his  face.  He  stared  at  the  tarnished  eyes  and  heavy 
eyelids,  at  the  grey  hair,  at  the  ugly  stubble  of  beard  that 
seemed  white  and  patchy.  Sometimes  there  were  blood- 
shot veins  in  the  eyes,  and  the  lids  appeared  so  ponderous 
that  one  wondered  how  they  were  able  to  flutter  up  and 
down  with  such  rapidity.  And  his  cheeks!  Where  was 
the  smooth  polish,  the  graceful  curve,  the  grand  solidity? 
It  seemed  that  there  was  scarcely  any  flesh  left  upon  the 
cheek-bones. 

And  he  would  go  on  growing  thinner  and  thinner;  it 
would  be  an  unceasing  progress — the  transformation  from 
the  live  face  to  the  grinning  skull. 

He  thought,  with  a  horror  that  every  day  renewed  itself, 
of  our  dependence  on  this  bodily  integument  of  bones,  flesh, 
and  viscera.  It  is  our  house  of  life,  in  which  we  sit  en- 
throned, seeming  omnipotent,  immortal ;  and  yet  if  the  house 
falls,  we  are  inexorably  destroyed  with  it. 

Terrible,  most  terrible  law  and  doom — to  watch  the 
body  droop,  decay,  grow  weak  and  fragile;  to  feel  that  we 
depend  on  its  force  and  endurance;  to  know  that  wTe  cannot 
escape  from  the  approaching  wreck. 

He  turned  his  head  to  right  and  to  left,  staring  into  the 
winged  glass,  and  seeing  three  sides  of  the  perishable  casket 
that  contained  this  divine  but  evanescent  spark — the  soul  of 
Lenny. 

416 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

One  afternoon  when  Mrs.  Jackson  had  banished  him  from 
Albert  Street  and  he  had  been  sleeping  on  a  couch  in  the 
club  library,  he  woke  with  a  start  out  of  a  bad  dream,  and 
found  the  ordinarily  quiet  room  full  of  excitement  and  com- 
motion. 

All  the  other  sleepers  had  awakened;  people  were  jump- 
ing up;  strangers  were  hurrying  towards  him. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked  sulkily. 

"Well,  you  gave  such  a  groan  that  we  were  afraid  you 
were  in  a  fit." 

"Oh,  no.     I'm  all  right." 

He  assumed  an  odd  kind  of  morose  dignity,  pulled  him- 
self together,  and  left  the  room.  '  As  he  slowly  descended 
the  marble  staircase,  his  deportment  exhibited  both  vacilla- 
tion and  truculence.  In  the  hall  people  looked  at  him  at- 
tentively. 

"Going  home,  sir?  I've  called  a  cab."  The  porter,  hav- 
ing come  out  of  the  glass  box,  was  helping  him  on  with  his 
overcoat. 

"Er,  ah,  thank  you,  Collins.  Yes,  it  is  my  wish  to  go 
home." 

Upstairs  a  member  of  the  committee  had  gone  into  the 
secretary's  office,  and  was  talking  about  him. 

"That  fellow  Calcraft — they  say  he  behaves  so  queerly, 
don't  you  know.     Have  you  observed  anything?" 

"No;  but  I've  heard  a  lot." 

And  the  secretary  mentioned  certain  rather  queer  things 
that  Calcraft  was  said  to  have  done.  However,  he  did 
not  think  there  was  anything  to  make  a  fuss  about. 

"He  very  rarely  comes  here.  Several  members  have 
given  him  the  straight  tip  that  he  isn't  wanted — and  I 
believe  he  understands  that  he  bores  them." 

"Then  you  don't  think  it's  necessary  to  do  anything? 
He's  only  a  bore — not  really  offensive?" 

417 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Oh,  no — quite  inoffensive.  Merely  a  bore.  And  of 
course  he  isn't  the  only  one." 

"Exactly." 

And  the  committee-man  and  the  secretary  both  laughed 
good-humouredly. 


XLIII 

LENNY  did  not  go  to  the  club  again.  He  told  Mrs. 
Jackson  that  she  must  contrive  to  clean  his  rooms 
one  at  a  time,  and  not  deprive  him  of  both  of  them 
together.  Now  and  then  he  sent  Jackson  with  a  written 
order  to  the  club  porter  for  the  delivery  of  letters;  but 
the  answer  brought  home  by  Jackson  was  nearly  always 
the  same.    "No  letters  at  the  club  for  Mr.  Calcraft." 

The  world  was  rolling  away  from  him:  almost  all  of 
its  busy  inhabitants  had  become  callously  indifferent  to  his 
poor  little  pleasures,  if  not  absolutely  forgetful  of  his  very 
existence.  And,  alas,  among  those  who  neglected  him  was 
the  man  Jackson. 

Long  since,  Jackson  had  begun  to  shirk  the  evening  talks, 
and  now  he  totally  avoided  them.  When  feebly  tackled, 
he  made  excuses.  He  apologized  most  respectfully,  but 
there  was  an  unmistakable  purpose  and  resolution  about 
it.  It  simply  meant:  No  more  Jackson  to  gossip  and  drink 
whisky  with. 

So  now,  in  the  hours  after  dinner  as  well  as  in  the  hours 
before  it,  Lenny  was  left  quite  alone. 

One  night  when  Jackson  had  cleared  the  dinner-table  and 
made  his  respectful  adieux,  he  returned  unexpectedly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  but,  you  know,  yesterday  you 
sent  me  to  ask  for  letters — and  you  never  mentioned  it 
again.  Well,  sir,  I  have  to  apologize  for  forgetting  it,  but 
there  was  a  letter  for  you." 

419 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Was  there,  Jackson?" 

Lenny  was  sitting  in  the  big  armchair,  near  the  fire  and 
he  did  not  look  around. 

"Here  it  is,  sir,"  and  Jackson  laid  the  letter  on  the  small 
table  by  Lenny's  chair.     "Good-night,  sir." 

"Ah  —  er  —  thank  you,  Jackson.  .  .  .  Good- 
night." 

Lenny  felt  tired  after  a  muddled  and  distressing  sort 
of  day,  and  quite  an  hour  passed  before  he  turned  from 
the  fire  and  picked  up  the  letter.  Throughout  the  day  his 
mind  had  been  dull  and  confused — with  something  opaque 
between  him  and  the  outside  world,  so  that  his  thoughts 
were  all  like  prisoners  in  a  prison. 

He  sat  staring  at  the  envelope.  Her  handwriting!  He 
would  know  it  among  a  million  hands.  And  he  seemed  to 
hear  her  voice — remote,  faint,  but  unmistakable. 

"Lenny.     .     .     .     Lenny!" 

He  whispered  her  name.     "Alma.     .     .     .     Alma!" 

His  mind  brightened.  That  sound,  reaching  him  from 
a  far-off  voice,  was  like  a  sunbeam  in  a  darkened  place,  a 
breath  of  sweet  pure  air  in  a  foul  dungeon.  And  he  heard 
her  voice  once  more — remote,  but  distinct  enough  for  him 
to  catch  the  deepening  note  that  used  to  stir  him  so  pro- 
foundly. 

"Lenny.     .     .     .     My  own  Lenny." 

A  last  call — the  voice  of  his  good  angel!  Lenny's  blood- 
shot eyes  were  suffused  with  the  too  ready  tears.  He 
sniffed,  wiped  his  eyes  on  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  and  opened 
the  envelope. 

Yes,  her  signature — no  one  else's.  But,  oh,  how  long! 
A  screed !  Four  pages  of  it.  What  a  task  she  had  set  him ! 
His  mind  grew  dull  again.  Nevertheless  he  settled  to  the 
work,  and  read  on  and  on,  slowly  and  laboriously — without 
skipping  a  sentence. 

430 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

"Dear  Lenny, — Perhaps  this  is  one  of  the  letters  that 
had  better  never  have  been  written;  but  I  cannot  help 
writing  it.  Burn  it  directly  you  have  read  it,  and  then 
send  me  one  line  to  say  that  you  received  it.  I  trust  you 
not  to  fail  me  in  either  of  these  requests. 

"I  have  been  ill;  and  while  I  was  recovering,  I  often 
thought  of  you.  And  I  thought  you  must  sometimes 
think  of  me,  and  that  it  would  be  dreadful  if,  instead 
of  getting  well,  I  had  died  without  telling  you  things 
that  I  want  you  to  know — things  that  I  believe  you  will 
be  glad  to  know." 

He  sighed,  and  slowly  turned  the  first  page.  When 
women  get  going  with  a  pen,  they  seem  to  go  splashing 
along  as  if  they  are  taking  exercise,  doing  something  for 
the  good  of  their  health. 

"I  want  you  to  know  that  I  am  happy,  absolutely  and 
entirely  happy.  The  past  is  as  if  it  had  never  been;  and 
I  look  forward,  as  far  as  human  eyes  may  see,  without 
doubt  and  without  fear.  So,  dear  Lenny,  if  you  some- 
times reproached  yourself  for  causing  me  great  pain,  you 
need  not  do  so  any  longer.  And  that  is  the  thing  that 
I  believe  you  will  be  glad  to  know. 

"I  say  it  with  a  spirit  of  faith,  though  it  may  seem 
impious:  you  made  me  descend  into  hell;  and  then,  after 
tasting  more  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  I  was  lifted 
into  Heaven.  For  two  years  after  you  and  I  parted  for 
the  last  time,  on  the  cruellest  day  of  my  life,  I  suffered 
those  torments  of  purgatory  which  alone  could  cle.m.e 
me  from  sin.  And  then  the  saints  took  pity  on  me;  the 
saints  interceding  for  me  prevailed,  and  a  miracle  was 
granted.  At  the  end  of  those  two  dark  years,  a  child  « .is 
born  to  me."     .     .     . 

431 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Lenny  thought  about  it  dully  and  yet  fretfully.  "This 
is  all  mighty  fine,  but  what  precisely  is  she  getting  at? 
Surely  she  has  not  so  fogged  herself  with  religion,  that  now 

she  tries  to  make  out  that "     He  turned  back  the  pages, 

and  slowly  re-read  enigmatic  passages.  Two  years  after- 
wards! Oh,  all  right.  The  other  idea  would  have  been 
rather  too  much  of  a  joke. 

.  .  .  "My  first  baby  was  a  boy,  and  my  second 
is  a  girl;  and  both  are  splendid  children,  like  the  children 
of  a  young  mother  who  had  never  sinned  and  never  suf- 
fered.    Those  wiser  than  myself " 

"Oh,  Lord,"  thought  Lenny,  "now  we  are  going  to  have 
the  priests  again."     He  plodded  on  with  it  wearily. 

.  .  .  "And  in  their  father's  face,  I  see  a  love  that 
nothing  will  ever  take  from  me.  He  is  happy  too,  and 
that  is  the  crown  of  my  happiness.  So  think  of  me  like 
this,  dear  Lenny:  as  one  who  has  no  room  in  her  heart 
for  a  single  unkind  thought  of  you,  who  has  forgotten 
and  forgiven,  who,  when  praying  for  those  she  loves  now, 
is  able  to  pray  for  someone  that  she  loved  a  long  time 
ago." 

He  read  it  to  the  very  end;  and  then  placed  it  on  the 
table  by  his  side.  He  felt  completely  fagged  by  the  labour 
of  reading  it.  So  Alma  was  happy.  Capital!  But  he 
could  not  rejoice  with  her;  he  could  not  in  imagination  see 
her;  he  could  not  catch  the  real  purport  of  her  rigmaroling 
message.  Happy — yes,  but  why  worry  him  about  it?  So 
like  a  woman! 

And,  staring  at  the  fire,  he  thought  that  there  had  been 
too  many  women  in  his  life.  A  mistake.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  women  that  had  tired  him  so  infernally. 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

For  another  hour  he  remained  quiet  and  inert;  then 
he  moved  restlessly.  He  was  again  thinking  of  Alma's 
letter.  Why  had  she  written  to  him?  Vaguely  he  remem- 
bered something  in  the  letter — some  bothering  request. 
What  was  it  that  she  wanted  him  to  do?  .  .  .  Oh, 
yes.  Burn  the  letter.  Of  course — common-sense.  A 
dashed  silly  letter  to  write — might  cause  one  endless  annoy- 
ance. Suppose  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  blackmailers?  He 
felt  considerable  indignation  as  he  laid  Alma's  letter  on  top 
of  the  glowing  coals. 

There!  He  watched  it  burn.  A  curious  sound  as  the 
heat  twisted  the  paper — a  sound  like  a  remote  voice  whis- 
pering his  name; — then  a  bright  flame,  and  then  a  little 
smoke.  And  he  thought,  "Yes,  how  much  that  seems  im- 
portant ends  in  smoke!" 

That  night  he  was  kept  awake  by  the  noise  of  the  traffic. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  thus  disturbed,  and  he 
recalled  the  assurances  given  to  him  by  Jackson.  The 
landlord  had  emphatically  declared  that  no  one  could  hear 
the  traffic  either  of  Bond  Street  or  the  Square. 

Not  hear  it?  What  a  monstrous  wicked  lie!  What 
a  shocking,  underhand  proceeding!  A  stream  of  traffic 
— a  tremendous  sea,  rolling  and  crashing  on  a  giant  beach: 
two  seas,  one  on  each  side  of  him,  with  two  pitiless  tides, 
setting  north  and  south. 

And  in  respites  of  quiet,  when  the  tides  ran  low,  this 
other  discomfort  occasioned  by  sounds  so  faint  that  you 
had  to  strain  your  ear  to  catch  them!  Whispering?  Yes, 
people  whispering  all  about  the  silent  house.  There!  Just 
outside  his  door — two  people  intermittently  whispering.  But 
who  were  the  whisperers? 

Suddenly  he  understood.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jackson  plot- 
ting mischief!    And  it  seemed  to  him  that  for  a  long  period 

m 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

of  time  he  had  entertained  shrewd  suspicions  as  to  the 
faithfulness  and  integrity  of  these  Jacksons.  His  landlord 
was  a  rascal,  and  his  landlady  no  better.  When  a  man 
has  told  you  one  thumping  lie,  he  will  tell  you  a  devil's 
procession  of  lies. 

But  what  little  game  were  they  hatching  out  there? 
Black  treachery.  It  must  be  something  very  bad  indeed 
which  people  are  afraid  to  speak  of  in  their  warm  bed, 
and  can  only  whisper  when  they  have  crept  downstairs 
and  stand  upon  a  patent  sound-resisting  mat. 

"All  right,  my  friends.  You  may  go  on  whispering  till 
you're  blue  with  cold.  A  nod  is  as  good  as  a  wink  to  a 
blind  horse.  Forewarned,  forearmed.  I'm  ready  for  your 
plots  now;"  and  he  smiled,  and  soon  began  to  doze.  He 
had  been  strangely  amused  and  more  strangely  calmed 
by  the  thought  of  the  night  air  blowing  about  the  unpro- 
tected legs  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jackson. 

Next  day  he  felt  exhausted;  nevertheless  some  inchoate 
necessity  for  action  impelled  him  to  attempt  unusual  toil. 
But  what?  During  his  morning  sleep  he  had  somehow 
lost  the  thread  of  the  argument. 

However,  rather  than  do  nothing  at  all,  he  recurred 
to  an  old  habit.  This  was  the  dragging  out  of  the  contents 
of  his  despatch-box  and  a  large  tin  deed-case.  The  leather 
box  held  cheque-books,  pass-books,  his  neglected  account- 
books,  and  so  on;  and  the  tin  case  was  stuffed  full  of  let- 
ters and  photographs — memorabilia  or  historical  records 
of  immense  interest. 

In  the  afternoon  he  sat  with  a  faded  photograph  in  his 
hand,  vainly  worrying  himself  as  he  strove  to  revive  dim 
memories.  Who  was  this  old  chap,  with  the  beaked  nose, 
the  bushy  eyebrows,  and  the  generally  familiar  appearance? 
It  was  someone  that  he  had  known  very  well.  His  colonel 
when  he  was  in  the  Guards?     But  was  he,  Lenny,  ever 

424. 


IN   COTTON    WOOL 

in  the  Guards?  Surely  he  had  been  a  soldier — a  distin- 
guished soldier — a  V.C.?  Or  was  it  the  Navy?  Which- 
ever service  it  was,  he  had  left  it  because  he  found  the 
life  too  hard.     Doctors  had  advised  him  to  be  careful. 

The  effort  to  settle  all  this  produced  a  dreadful  muddled 
discomfort.  Then  suddenly  and  quite  unexpectedly  he  be- 
gan to  weep.  He  stared  at  the  photograph  with  overflowing 
eyes.     "That  was  my   father — my   dear,   dear  father!" 

But  the  doubt  as  to  the  cross  for  valour  soon  surged  up 
again.  Surely  he  had  in  fact  won  it — by  repelling  a  charge 
of  cavalry?  Horses  galloping  at  him  furiously,  and  unaided 
he  had  stopped  them.  Then,  if  so,  wrhere  was  the  cross 
itself — the  iron  or  bronze  ornament  that  he  had  worn,  and 
that  soldier-friends  used  to  speak  of  as  "the  coveted  decora- 
tion"? He  could  not  find  it.  Not  in  the  despatch-box 
or  the  tin  case — not  anywhere.  He  hunted  for  it  through 
both  rooms,  and  his  suspicions  of  last  night  grew  stronger. 
These  people — these  Jacksons — were  thieves.  They  had 
stolen  his  decoration. 

Presently  he  summoned  Mrs.  Jackson,  and  informed  her 
that  he  must  give  up  the  rooms  and  leave  at  once.  He 
did  not  accuse  her  of  malpractices,  because  he  had  just 
decided  that  it  would  be  impolitic  to  do  so.  The  need 
now  was  to  escape  from  the  den  of  thieves;  he  could  call 
them  to  account  afterwards. 

"Have  the  kindness,"  he  said,  "to  get  the  bill  ready, 
while  I  pack  my  things." 

Mrs.  Jackson  naturally  tried  to  dissuade  him  from  such 
a  hasty  and  unanticipated  departure;  but  he  told  her  that 
he  had  good  reasons  for  going  without  another  day's 
delay. 

"My  reasons,"  he  said,  "are  of  a  strictly  private  char- 
acter— at  any  rate  for  the  present.  I  will  perhaps  explain 
them  later  on.     .     .     .     Now,  send  me  all  my  trunks;  and 

425 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

if  Jackson  has  a  touch  of  gratitude  or  decent  feeling,  he  will 
come  and  help  me  pack." 

Jackson  was  out,  and  therefore  Lenny  for  a  long  while 
received  no  better  assistance  than  could  be  furnished  by  the 
maid-servant.  And  he  himself  was  impotent  to  make  any 
real  progress.  He  emptied  the  wardrobes,  piled  the  gar- 
ments on  the  bed,  but  put  scarcely  anything  in  the  trunks; 
he  carried  things  from  room  to  room;  he  created  an  as- 
tounding chaos  in  both  rooms. 

At  about  seven  o'clock  Jackson  returned,  and  urged  him 
to  renounce  the  idea  of  abandoning  his  comfortable  quar- 
ters. Mrs.  Jackson  also  repeated  her  entreaties.  But  it 
was  all  of  no  avail.     Lenny  must  and  would  be  off. 

Jackson  regretfully  did  the  packing — a  slow  and  diffi- 
cult job,  because  Lenny  interfered  with  him  every  moment, 
and  could  not  say  which  were  the  things  he  would  take 
away  now  and  which  were  those  that  should  be  sent  after 
him.  It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  before  the  packing  was 
completed  and  a  four-wheeled  cab  stood  at  the  door. 

While  Jackson  was  bringing  down  the  last  trunk,  Lenny 
talked  to  the  cabman  confidentially.  He  said  that  he  was 
going  to  seek  for  lodgings,  and  he  asked  the  cabman  to 
aid  him  in  finding  them.  They  must  be  in  a  quiet  street, 
and  thoroughly  comfortable  and  respectable. 

The  cabman  said  it  was  rather  late  to  look  for  lodgings. 
However,  after  a  devious  and  protracted  drive,  he  pulled  up 
in  the  Marylebone  Road,  on  the  north  side,  between  Baker 
Street  and  the  Great  General  Railway  Station. 

"This,"  he  said,  "seems  quiet  enough,  sir.  That  long 
garden  in  front!" 

By  night  it  was  a  sinister-looking  house. — The  ground- 
floor  windows  screened  with  metal  gauze,  on  which  one 
just  discerned  some  large  lettering;  scarcely  any  illumina- 
tion, merely  a  gleam  of  red  firelight  from  the  dark  base- 

426 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

ment  and  weak  gaslight  above  the  front  door — no  answer 
for  a  considerable  time  to  the  tinkling  front  bell. 

At  last  the  door  opened,  and  Lenny  saw  his  new  land- 
lord— a  very  sinister-looking  person,  pallid,  thin,  ghoul- 
like. 

"What's  your  name?"  asked  Lenny. 

"Well,"  and  the  man  hesitated.  "Well,  my  name's  Field- 
ing.    And  what  may  your  name  be?" 

"My  name  is  Leonard  Calcraft.  We  have  never  met 
before;"  and  hurriedly  he  explained  his  requirements. 

Mr.  Fielding  said  he  must  consult  with  "the  wife";  and 
a  small,  sallow,  vixenish  Frenchwoman  came  up  the  kitchen 
stairs  into  the  dirty  hall. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Fielding,  after  discussing  matters  with 
this  woman,  "the  gentleman  can  have  the  top  floor.  It  is 
quiet  as  the  grave." 

Lenny  instantly  engaged  it,  and  the  landlord  with  the 
Cabman  carried  up  his  trunks. 


23 


XLIV 

BY  day  the  house  had  a  wickedly  forbidding  aspect — 
so  meanly  compressed,  so  closely  shut,  so  silent — as 
of  an  avaricious  person  who  is  hiding  a  secret. 

Once  there  had  been  a  dentist  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
his  lettered  sign  was  still  decipherable,  but  he  himself  was 
there  no  more;  a  dressmaker  on  the  first  floor  and  some 
women  on  the  floor  above  her  had  also  gone.  The  house 
was  empty  of  guests  now,  except  for  the  lodger  on  the  top 
floor. 

July  sunbeams  pouring  through  shut  windows  of  his 
bedroom  made  the  atmosphere  oppressively  warm,  but  he 
did  not  mind  that.  On  the  contrary  he  liked  the  snug- 
ness.  The  furniture  consisted  of  wretched  valueless  things; 
the  empty  trunks,  standing  piled  in  a  corner,  were  thick 
with  dust;  the  whole  room  was  sordid  and  ugly; — but 
Lenny  did  not  mind;  indeed  he  observed  nothing  unusual, 
nothing  that  he  would  have  wished  to  see  altered. 

Lenny  is  insane.  Night  and  day,  lying  in  the  bed,  he  is 
at  the  mercy  of  his  landlord  and  landlady.  How  long  has 
he  lain  like  this?  Impossible  to  say.  Wisps  of  grey  hair 
hang  over  his  bloodshot  eyes;  his  beard  is  five  or  six  inches 
in  length;  altogether  he  looks  immeasurably  older  than 
when  he  made  his  precipitate  flight  from  the  good  Jacksons. 
Certainly  he  must  have  been  here  for  many  months — possi- 
bly for  years.     He   is  neither  dangerous  nor  troublesome; 

428 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

the  dominant  idea  being  a  desire  that  those  on  whom  he 
depends  shall  keep  him  quiet  and  make  him  comfortable. 

His  landlord,  going  in  and  out  of  the  room,  would  say 
blandly,  "Traffic,  sir?  Oh,  no,  sir.  No  traffic  now.  We 
stopped  that,  last  March.  Don't  you  remember?  You 
gave  the  order  yourself.  No  more  traffic  to  pass  the  door, 
night  or  day,  under  any  pretext  whatever." 

"That's  right.  That's  right,"  said  Lenny,  with  eager- 
ness.    "It  is  still  my  order.     I  must  not  be  disturbed." 

"No,  sir.    You  shan't  be  disturbed." 

Truly,  he  was  an  easy  lodger,  and  an  enormously,  in- 
credibly profitable  one. 

The  landlord  had  soon  possessed  himself  of  all  informa- 
tion as  to  Lenny's  antecedents;  he  had  taken  charge  of 
cheque-books,  pass-books,  and  papers;  he  wrote  a  near  clerkly 
hand,  and  professed  to  be  Lenny's  authorized  secretary  and 
man  of  business. 

Just  at  first  Lenny  had  shown  occasional  flashes  of  sus- 
picion. Ages  ago,  waking  at  night,  he  saw  the  man  and 
the  woman  kneeling  on  the  floor,  and  extracting  the  con- 
tents of  the  treasured  despatch-box. 

"Hullo!"  Lenny  jumped  up  in  bed,  and  protested. 
"Don't  touch  that  box.     What  are  you  doing?" 

"Only  making  you  comfortable,  sir." 

That  always  pacified  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Lenny,  sinking  back  on  the  pillows.  "Yes, 
make  me  comfortable." 

By  playing  with  the  dominant  idea,  they  could  induce  him 
to  accept  all  phenomena  as  natural  and  proper.  He  would 
affix  his  signature  to  letters,  to  blank  cheques,  to  anything 
put  before  him  with  an  announcement  of  benevolent  inten- 
tions. 

"Here  you   are,  sir.     The  wife  and   I  have  a  plan  of 

♦29 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

making  you  more  comfortable.  It  will  cost  money.  But 
I  suppose  you  don't  grudge  it?" 

"No,"  said  the  lodger  eagerly.     "I  do  not  grudge  it." 

"Very  well.  Sign  this,  please;"  and  a  pen  was  put  into 
his  hand  by  the  man,  while  the  woman  held  a  writing-board 
against  his  raised  knees. 

He  signed  letters  without  attempting  to  read  them — 
letters  to  his  bankers,  asking  for  his  pass-book  and  another 
cheque-book,  instructing  them  to  sell  out  English  stock; 
and  letters  to  his  stockbrokers,  instructing  them  to  buy 
foreign  bonds  to  bearer. 

This,  then,  was  the  condition  of  Lenny  when  the  July 
sun  shone  upon  his  fastened  windows  and  he  dozed  in  the 
stifling  air.     Alone,  helpless,  forgotten. 

But  it  seemed  that  there  was  still  one  person  in  the 
world  who  remembered  Lenny,  and  felt  uneasiness  because 
he  had  disappeared  from  human  ken.  She  had  waited  a 
long  time  for  an  answer  to  a  letter;  but  no  word  from 
Lenny  ever  came,  and  this  silence  was  to  her  mind  inex- 
plicable. She  brooded  over  the  mystery;  and  then,  looking 
round  and  finding  a  staunch  messenger,  she  sent  him  forth 
with  insistent  commands  to  ascertain  what  had  befallen 
Lenny. 

Lenny's  address  was  not  known  by  officials  at  the  club, 
but  they  gave  the  name  of  Lenny's  bank;  the  bankers  knew 
Lenny's  address,  but  because  of  their  rules  could  not  dis- 
close it.  They  would,  however,  supply  the  name  of  Lenny's 
stockbrokers;  and  the  stockbrokers,  after  consideration,  gave 
the  Marylebone  Road  address. 

So  now,  to  the  disgust  of  Mr.  Fielding  and  the  wrath  of 
his  little  French  shrew,  a  visitor  stands  at  the  hall  door, 
and  asks  to  see  their  lodger. 

"Oh,"  said  Fielding,  "he  can't  see  anybody," 

430 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

But  it  was  scarcely  probable  that  this  broad-faced  reso- 
lute visitor,  having  had  so  much  trouble  in  hunting  Lenny 
to  ground,  would  refrain  from  unearthing  him. 

"It's  no  use;"  said  Fielding.  "I  couldn't  take  the  re- 
sponsibility of  letting  you  in." 

"Then  /'ll  take  all  responsibility;"  and  with  uncere- 
monious brusqueness  the  visitor  pushed  Fielding  aside,  en- 
tered the  hall,  and  began  opening  doors. 

Soon  he  had  found  his  way  to  the  top  floor,  and  was 
standing  by  Lenny's  bedside,  and  looking  down  with  pity 
and  dismay  at  his  haggard  face. 

"Calcraft!  Lenny!  Don't  you  know  me?  I'm  Gerald 
Dryden." 

Dryden  came  sadly  down  the  stairs,  to  go  out  and  bring 
a  doctor  back  with  him. 

The  doctor  said  that  of  course  Lenny  was  quite  mad, 
and  also  of  course  that  he  ought  to  be  in  an  asylum.  The 
doctor  said  it  seemed  a  shocking  state  of  affairs,  and  he  told 
Mr.  Fielding  that  it  was  a  punishable  offence  to  keep  a 
lunatic  in  such  a  manner.  Indeed  both  he  and  Dryden 
talked  severely  to  Fielding,  and  asked  many  pointed  ques- 
tions. 

"We  knew  he  was  an  invalid." — This  was  the  substance 
of  Fielding's  replies  under  cross-examination. — "He  was  an 
invalid  when  he  come  to  us,  but  we  never  knew  that  he  was 
mad.  He  always  talked  sensible  enough,  and  will  now,  if 
you  don't  frighten  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  as  to  his  money — 
quite  capable  to  manage  it.  .  .  .  Of  course  we  assisted 
him,  same  as  he  requested  us.  .  .  .  I'm  sure  we're 
more  like  losers  than  gainers  by  having  him  here.  He  was 
always  borrowing  money  from  us.  Then  he  would  pay  us 
something  on  account;  and  so  it  went  on.  But,  unless  I'm 
very  much  mistaken,  the  account  is  all  against  him,  and  \\  ill 
show  a  good  balance  in  our  favour.     .     .     .     No,  I  haven't 

431 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

made  up  the  account.  Why  should  I  ?  The  gentleman  was 
comfortable  with  us.  He  was  very  fond  of  my  wife;  yes, 
very  fond  indeed.  And  she  treated  him  like  a  sister;  yes, 
so  she  has." 

Two  hours  later,  when  Dryden  returned  with  a  char- 
woman to  clean  the  room  and  a  male  nurse  to  guard  the 
patient,  the  landlord  and  landlady  were  gone — vanished 
for  ever;  not  to  be  traced  now  c~  afterwards  by  the  police. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fielding  had  made  their  coup,  and  felt  satis- 
fied to  retire  modestly. 

Next  day  Lenny  was  certified  as  insane  and  consigned 
to  an  asylum  on  the  outskirts  of  London.  Dryden  had 
summoned  Newall,  the  Westchurch  solicitor;  Newall  in 
his  turn  summoned  Holway,  the  sufferer's  brother-in-law; 
and  between  them  they  completed  all  formalities  and  ar- 
rangements with  so  much  promptness  as  to  be  able  to  move 
Lenny  before  nightfall. 

He  was  perfectly  amenable,  at  once  embracing  the  no- 
tion of  a  journey,  and  raving  about  the  care  that  would 
be  taken  of  him.  According  to  his  view  of  the  matter, 
a  marvellous  carriage  was  to  be  brought  to  remove  him 
without  sound  or  oscillation:  one  of  these  splendid  new 
inventions  of  science  that  permit  a  tired  man  to  pass  from 
place  to  place,  no  matter  what  obstacles  he  may  have  to 
encounter,  without  fatigue,  without  distress — in  absolute 
comfort. 


THE  St.  James's  Street  club  was  full  for  the  luncheon- 
hour,  and  Holway  and  his  three  guests  had  just 
seated  themselves  at  a  table  in  a  corner  of  the 
coffee  room. 

First  of  all  they  talked  about  their  food,  and  then  later 
they  talked  about  the  business  that  had  drawn  them  to- 
gether. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Holway  hospitably,  "cold  lamb  and 
salad  for  you,  Dr.  Searle !  But  won't  you  begin  with  some 
fish  or  chicken?  .  .  .  Mr.  Newall,  you  said  minced 
veal!  And,  Dryden,  pressed  beef!  Yours  was  the  pressed 
beef,  eh?     And  now  what  about  wine?" 

Mr.  Henderson,  the  head-waiter,  hovered  attentively  and 
offered  some  choice  brands;  but  the  little  party  showed 
simple  tastes  and  would  not  fairly  test  the  capacity  of  the 
club   cellars. 

"Well  now,  here  we  are,"  said  Holway;  "and  I  propose 
to  tell  you  exactly  how  we  stand." 

Holway's  square  head  had  become  snowy  white,  and  the 
whiteness  of  his  hair  enhanced  the  redness  of  his  cheeks ;  his 
stubby  figure  seemed  as  solid  as  ever;  and  he  still  spoke 
with  the  rustic  Midland  accent,  but  his  power  of  language 
had  so  greatly  increased  that  one  might  guess  at  efforts  for 
education  and  culture  late  in  life.  Altogether  he  looked 
what  he  was,  an  able,  honest,  and  successful  old  chap.     He 

m 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

had  become  a  member  of  Parliament,  and  could  afford  to 
join  London  clubs  that  he  scarcely  ever  used. 

"We  shall  never  see  that  blackguard  Fielding  again," 
he  went  on  firmly.  "We  shall  never  recover  a  penny  of 
the  money." 

Then  they  all  spoke  of  the  Marylebone  Road  landlord. 
He  was  known  to  the  police;  he  had  served  a  term  of  im- 
prisonment for  forgery ;  the  Frenchwoman  was  not  his  wife ; 
and  so  on.  Dr.  Searle  said  he  thought  the  bank  and  the 
stockholders  were  very  much  to  blame.  Mr.  Newall  said 
that  there  could  be  no  redress  against  them. 

Holway  observed  that  they  might  talk  for  a  week,  but 
the  facts  would  be  unchanged.  This  scoundrel  had  con- 
verted the  bulk  of  Calcraft's  fortune  into  readily  negotiable 
securities,  and  had  got  clean  away  with  it;  only  a  compara- 
tively small  sum  remained — certainly  not  enough  to  yield 
an  annual  interest  that  would  maintain  Calcraft  at  the 
suburban  asylum. 

In  these  sad  circumstances  Holway  had  decided  that 
the  only  possible  course  would  be  to  sink  the  whole  of 
Calcraft's  remaining  capital  in  the  purchase  of  an  annuity, 
which  might  provide  just  sufficient  to  keep  Calcraft  at  a 
large  semi-public  institution  in  the  north  of  England. 

Searle  immediately  said  he  knew  something  about  this 
institution.     It  bore  an  excellent  fame. 

"You've  heard  of  it?  Good.  Well,  then,"  Holway  went 
on  in  businesslike  tones,  "I  believe  that's  the  thing — the  great 
thing  is  to  secure  his  future.  For  the  doctors  all  say  that, 
though  he  can't  get  back  his  reason,  he  may  live  for  a 
number  of  years — when  once  he  is  safe  and  comfortable. 
.  .  .  By  the  by,  what  are  you  all  going  to  have  for 
pudden'?"  And  he  turned  and  beckoned  a  waiter.  "Attend 
to  me,  please.  I  don't  come  here  often — and  I'll  be  glad  if 
you'll  attend  to  me  when  I  do  come." 

434 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Dryden  chose  apple  tart;  Dr.  Searle  took  some  innocent 
blanc-mange;  Mr.  Newall,  the  hard  man  of  law,  had  a 
creamy  meringue;  and,  while  eating  these  sweets,  they  con- 
tinued to  talk  of  Lenny. 

"The  doctor  for  the  insurance  company,"  said  Holway, 
"employed  an  expression  that  I  didn't  understand.  He 
said  Calcraft's  whole  life  had  been  a  long  preparation  for 
madness.  What  did  that  mean?  Do  you  suppose  he  had 
any  secret  vices?" 

"No,"  said  Searle,  warmly,  "certainly  not.  ...  I 
knew  him  better  than  anybody" — Searle's  eyes  glowed  softly 
behind  his  spectacles — "and  there  was  no  one  I  was  more 
genuinely  fond  of." 

"I,"  said  Dryden,  "was  very  fond  of  him — in  the  begin- 
ning." For  a  moment  he  paused,  then  added  stoutly,  "And 
so  was  my  wife." 

"He  had  good  impulses,"  said  Newall. 

"The  only  time  I  met  Calcraft,"  said  Holway,  "he  im- 
pressed me  very  favourably — something  winning  in  his 
manner;  and  I  was  grateful  for  what  he  did  for  Mrs. 
Holway.  ...  By  the  way,  one  of  you  said  this  was  the 
poor  fellow's  club.     Is  that  correct?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dryden. 

"Yes,"  said  Newall.  "He  always  wrote  from  here.  He 
was  proud  of  belonging  to  it." 

And  they  glanced  down  the  room,  admiring  its  vast  size 
and  elegant  proportions,  its  rich  crimson  walls  and  golden 
columns.  It  was  full  now  to  overflowing — a  long  perspec- 
tive of  happy  lunchers;  with  the  sunlight  from  the  tall  win- 
dows falling  on  bald  heads,  flashing  in  dish  covers,  striking 
fire  out  of  cut-glass  bottles.  Jaws  moving,  tongues  wag- 
ging, knives  clattering — and  in  all  the  long  room,  from  end 
to  end  of  it,  there  was  no  member  who  missed  Lenny,  no 
member  who  regretted  Lenny. 

435 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

But  Henderson  the  head-waiter,  hovering  and  supervising, 
had  heard  a  familiar  name,  and  with  humble  apology  he 
joined  in  the  talk. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  but  were  you  speaking  of  our 
Mr.  Calcraft?"  And  Henderson  ventured  to  say  how 
much  the  club  servants  liked  Mr.  Calcraft.  "There  wasn't 
one  of  us  who  didn't  feel  sorry.  ...  It  was  a  pleasure 
to  wait  on  him.  There  wasn't  hardly  a  gentleman  in  the 
club  that  we  of  the  staff  was  so  fond  of." 

"There,"  said  Searle  triumphantly.  "Everybody  who 
knew  him  liked  him.     You  couldn't  help  liking  him." 

Downstairs  in  the  smoking-room,  while  they  drank  their 
coffee,  Holway  and  Dryden  sat  together  on  a  sofa  and 
talked  of  children.  Searle  and  Newall  had  asked  for  the 
August  ABC  guide,  and  were  looking  up  a  new  fast  train 
to  Westchurch. 

"How  many  have  you?"  asked  Dryden. 

"Nine,"  said  Holway,  and  he  chuckled. 

"I  have  only  two,"  said  Dryden,  with  a  pride  that  aped 
humility. 

"And  how  old  do  you  think  my  youngest  is?"  said  Hol- 
way. "You'd  never  guess  from  the  look  of  me.  Seven 
years  of  age!" 

"My  youngest  isn't  two — and  you'd  scarcely  credit  it, 
but  she  talks  almost  fluently.  She  said  to  me  this  morning, 
'Daddy.'"     .     .     . 

Newall  and  Searle  were  going.  It  was  time  for  the  little 
party  to  break  up — they  were  all  of  them  busy  men,  and 
each  had  work  to  do. 

"Yes,"  said  Holway,  as  they  came  out  into  the  hall  to 
get  their  hats,  "very  sad,  all  this.  But  I'm  sure  we've 
acted  for  the  best.  I  don't  see  what  else  we  could  have 
done.  I  think  there  is  no  question  he  will  be  properly 
treated  up  there." 

435 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

And  for  a  minute  Holway  and  Dryden  lingered  near  the 
weighing  machine — that  velvet  seat  on  which  Lenny  used 
once  to  sit  enthroned,  and  feel  himself  the  central  figure  of 
the  whole  palace. 

"Well,  I  must  be  off.  Hope  we  may  meet  again;"  and 
Holway  sighed,  and  spoke  philosophically.  "How  curious 
it  is — these  hours  when  men  meet,  as  we  have  met  to-day, 
to  wind  up  another  man's  life  for  him!  It  is  like  putting 
the  word  Finis  to  a  book  that  you  haven't  written  yourself 
— that  you  have  not  even  read.  I  always  feel  it  like  that. 
And  scarcely  a  week  passes  that  I  haven't  got  to  do  it. 
You  know — somebody's  funeral ;  somebody  going  to  have 
a  critical  operation;  somebody  broken  down  in  the  midst  of 
an  apparently  prosperous  career,  and  ordered  to  chuck  every- 
thing for  a  rest  cure.  Next  week  the  trouble  is  nearer 
home.  My  third  boy  threatened  with  cataract !  His  mother 
and  I  are  taking  him  to  Weisbaden.  That  is  my  job  next 
week.     .     .     .     Good-bye!" 


XLVI 

IT  was  an  autumn  afternoon,  with  ripe  perfumes  in  the 
air,  and  a  sunlight  so  generous  and  golden  that  it  even 
softened  and  gave  beauty  to  such  ugly  things  as  mad- 
house walls. 

The  huge  stone  building  comprised  many  blocks ;  cloisters 
and  halls  intervening,  the  high  roof  of  the  chapel  at  one 
end,  the  tower  and  chimneys  of  the  laundry  at  the  other. 
Just  now  there  had  been  a  clanging  summons  of  bells,  and 
out  of  the  cloisters  processions  of  patients  came  trooping 
to  take  their  daily  exercise.  Each  procession  kept  to  itself — 
twenty  or  thirty  patients,  conducted  by  two  or  three  attend- 
ants; tramping,  plodding,  shuffling  round  and  round  the 
extensive  enclosure,  past  lawns  and  shrubberies,  up  and 
down  gravel  paths,  in  the  shade  of  trees,  in  the  warmth  of 
the  sun;  but  never  permitted  to  go  within  sight  and  sound 
of  the  space  that  was  reserved  for  the  airing  and  recreation 
of  the  dangerous  lunatics. 

These  had  a  garden  to  themselves;  and  truly  they  were 
painful  to  see  and  hear — terrible  ghosts  of  men  dancing  and 
hooting, — an  inferno,  all  grey  and  vague  in  the  shadow  of 
the  building,  behind  iron  rails  and  a  sunk  fence. 

But  the  open  grounds  were  peaceful  and  pretty;  with 
flower  beds,  sundials,  terraces — everything  that  reasonable 
people  could  ask  for.  On  one  of  the  lower  terraces  there 
were,  positively,  benches. 

"Forgive  me  if  I  fall  out  of  rank."  A  procession  coming 
along   this   terrace  had   reached   the   benches,   and   a   tall 

438 


IN    COTTON    WOOL 

bearded  man  was  addressing  the  warder  in  charge.     "But, 
ah,  may  I  sit  down?     I  am  excessively  tired." 

"And  may  I  sit  down  too?  ,  .  .  I  feel  tired. 
.     .     .     We  are  all  tired." 

The  warder  called  a  halt,  and  the  benches  were  imme- 
diately occupied. 

Lenny  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  secure  the  best 
bench — the  one  that  gave  him  the  charming  view  over  the 
wide  moorland.  He  looked  out  across  miles  and  miles  of 
purple  heather  to  the  distant  horizon,  where  the  sky  was 
faintly  stained  with  the  smoke  of  factory  towns;  and  he 
thought  the  prospect  restful  and  pleasing;  but  he  grunted 
in  dissatisfaction  when  another  patient,  Mr.  Ross,  came  and 
sat  on  the  bench  beside  him. 

"Ah!  Exactly  what  I  was  requiring."  Lenny  picked 
up  a  bit  of  stick,  and  with  the  jagged  stump  of  it  began  to 
push  back  the  flesh  round  his  finger  nails.  "Manicuring 
myself,"  he  murmured  contentedly.  "Manicuring!  Gives 
a  fascination— sign  of  good  birth  also."  But  soon  he  was 
prodding  so  fiercely  that  he  tore  his  fingers,  and  the  blood 
flowed. 

"Hurrah!"  Each  time  that  the  little  spurt  of  blood  ap* 
peared,  Mr.  Ross  laughed  and  crowed  and  clapped  his  hands 
with  childlike  glee. 

Then  an  attendant  saw  what  was  happening,  and  snatched 
the  stick  away  angrily. 

"How  often  have  you  been  told  not  to  <lo  it?  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

Lenny's  nether  lip  drooped,  and  he  looked  at  the  at- 
tendant piteously. 

"Do  you  want  to  be  punished  once  more?" 

"No;"  and  Lenny  burst  into  tears.     "No — please." 

"Very  well.  Then  mind  what  I  tell  you — don't  you 
touch  those  nails  again." 

439 


IN   COTTON   WOOL 

Lenny  looked  ruefully  at  the  bleeding  hands,  and  then 
whispered  to  his  companion. 

"That  man  is  a  beast  to  me." 

"He  is  a  beast  to  everybody;"  and  Mr.  Ross  spoke  with 
increasing  rapidity.  "But  I  intend  to  free  myself  from  his 
tricks.  The  air  must  be  cleared  of  all  such  vermin.  Verb, 
sap.  I  talk  Latin,  Greek,  and  all  other  dead  languages. 
No  matter !  But  how  are  they  generated — these  pests,  these 
Jacks-in-office,  and  petty  tyrants  dressed  in  a  little  brief 
authority?  From  and  by  a  gas — nothing  else.  But  what 
gas?  Give  me  its  chemical  formula  in  plain  terms.  That 
is  my  secret.  Suffice  it,  that  I  can  generate  discharges  of  a 
potent  counter-agent.  Bang!  Fizz!  I'll  blow  them  to 
Jerusalem,  and  further.  When  will  this  happen?  That 
is  my  secret.  Suffice  it —  But  you  are  not  listening  to 
me." 

"No,"   said   Lenny. 

"Why  don't  you  listen  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Ross,  with 
incipient  rage,  "when  I  am  talking  to  you?" 

"Because  you  do  not  interest  me." 

Mr.  Ross  was  becoming  furious;  but  Lenny  displayed  a 
dignity  greater  than  had  ever  been  possible  to  him  when 
sane.  He  looked  at  his  offended  friend  calmly  and  steadily, 
and  he  spoke  coldly  and  firmly. 

"You  talk  about  yourself,  and  therefore  your  conversa- 
tion can  possess  no  interest  to  anybody  but  yourself.  You 
are  conversationally  a  bore." 

"Why  am  I  a  bore?"  Lenny's  outraged  companion  had 
sprung  up,  and  was  foaming.    "Why  am  I  a  bore?" 

Lenny  smiled,  and  shrugged  his  lean  shoulders.  "Because 
you  are  an  incurable  egotist." 

"I  am  not  incurable — I  am  going  to  be  discharged  next 
month;"  and,  overcome  by  resentment  and  fury,  Mr.  Ross 
clenched  his  fists  and  used  them  wildly. 

440 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

"Help!"  cried  Lenny.     "Murder!     .     .     .     Murder!" 

They  were  promptly  separated  by  two  warders,  who 
at  first  seemed  inclined  to  be  severe  with  Mr.  Ross.  But 
the  other  lunatics  told  tales.  "Mr.  Calcraft  insulted  him. 
.     .     .     Yes,  he  did.     .     .     .     He  teased  him." 

A  doctor  came  along  the  terrace,  and  the  attendants  gave 
their  report — report  adverse  to  Lenny.  "He's  always  teas- 
ing them.    There's  no  harm  in  Mr.  Ross,  if  he  isn't  teased." 

The  doctor,  after  reflection,  spoke  sternly. 

"Mr.  Calcraft,  you  are  in  a  bad  mood  to-day.  You  were 
restless  and  fussy  this  morning — and  I  warned  you.  Now 
I  shall  send  you  to  bed.     .     .     .     Take  him  up  to  bed." 

"I  won't  go,"  said  Lenny. 

"Then  it  will  be  the  punishment  ward." 

"Then  I  will  go  to  bed — but  I  insist  on  being  carried 
there."  Three  warders  were  about  him,  and  he  swung  an 
arm  round  the  nearest  neck.  All  this  excitement  had  been 
rather  too  much  for  Lenny's  nerves;  he  passed  swiftly  into 
a  fit  of  frenzied  exaltation,  and  became  noisier  and  noisier. 
"Yes — to  bed!  It  is  my  order  too.  Carry  me  to  my  bed — 
my  jolly  bed.  Tuck  me  up  and  make  me  comfortable. 
.  .  .  Ha-ha!  Ha-ha!  Fall  in  there,  palanquin-bearers! 
March.  .  .  .  Oh,  this  is  movement  without  oscilla- 
tion." He  seemed  to  think  that  he  was  being  carried,  al- 
though in  truth  the  warders  were  roughly  hustling  him 
along  the  paths.     "Ha-ha!     Ha-ha!" 

"Less  noise." 

"No,   more  noise!     Sound   the   Emperor's  trumpets." 

"Will  you  stop  that  row?" 

"Yes — silence!  Dead  silence  while  the  Emperor  passes. 
On  your  faces — prostrate  yourselves.  Your  Emperor  passes 
from  his  garden  to  his  bed." 

And  he  was  quiet  till  they  came  to  the  entrance  of  Block 
B — a  porch  like  the  mouth  of  a  railway  tunnel;  a   long 

441 


IN    COTTON   WOOL 

stone  passage,  scarcely  penetrated  by  the  sunshine,  and 
closed  in  by  darkness.  Here,  near  the  entrance,  Lenny  saw 
a  maid-servant,  and  began  to  shout  and  fight. 

"Shut  up,  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  Now  we  shall  have  a  job 
with  him.     .     .     .     Run  away,  miss." 

"Ah,  delicate  houri — sylph  of  the  honey  lips — my  favourite 
slave !  Your  Emperor  passes  from  the  garish  sunlight  to  the 
soothing  dark,  but  you  may  follow," 

The  hoarse  shouting  voice  struck  out  terrific  echoes  as 
the  struggling  group  grew  dim,  and  dimmer. 

"Follow.     .     .     .     Follow.     .     .     .     Follow." 

A  last  echo;  a  gleam  of  artificial  light  as  a  door  opened 
and  shut.    Then  silence  and  darkness. 


(3) 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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DAY    AND    TO     $1.00     ON     THE    SEVENTH     DAY 
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WOV  28  1933 

iinn      fk"Q     4A4C 

APR   £1  1935 

MAY   10  1935 

AUli   12193b 

i.iM    o«7     1Q46 

JUN     &  i        l9f%9 

LD  21-100m-7,'33 

YB  33396 


52865J 


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